


The Court of Bastards

by MariDark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And mental problems, Don't Be Shy, F/M, Gen, Graphic Violence and Murder, Insanity, Jonerys, Jonerys AU Fest, Ramsay as Spymaster, Ramsay laughs at everyone, Tags Are Hard, Things Have Gotten Dark, Violence, While stabbing a bitch, Worldbuilding, there is fluff, very dark stuff, you read it right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-29 23:37:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 147,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12095922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariDark/pseuds/MariDark
Summary: Stannis takes Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen from her mother’s dying arms and raises her as his ward. The New King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, decides that her fate is to wed with shame, making her family line continue in disgrace by pairing her to his friend’s bastard, Jon Snow, despite Eddard Stark’s initial refusal.





	1. Daenerys

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Snow and Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934042) by [BlueBells66 (LadySunflower39)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySunflower39/pseuds/BlueBells66). 



> Not my first work in this fandom, but first time really writing with this pairing and focusing on the romancing part of the story from the first go.
> 
> This is for BlueBells66, who wrote a fantastic story of Dany going North and which inspired me to spin this tale which I now present you!

When Dany lived in Dragonstone with Lord Stannis, he used to say she was far too chirpy — too happy, too smiling, nothing like the gloomy doomed princess she ought to be — for a Targaryen betrothed to a highborn Northern bastard just from the spite of the king.

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, last of the dragons, — unless you counted the Beggar King exiled in Essos — since a very young age was set to marry Jon Snow of Winterfell, simply because the king ordered so, saying that it would be right for her treacherous House to end in ruin, sullied by bastard’s blood he said, and yet being repayment to the crimes of her father. Robert Baratheon thought it poetical that she would be freezing in the North, lady to a castle in the Gift, serving their profits to the Wall with a bastard for a husband and surrounded by savage wildlings. In the South's court, there were whispers of how righteous it was for her to be handed over to a Stark bastard, that she was payment, retribution for all the grief her House made the Wardens of the North pass.

Lord Baratheon of Dragonstone, her guardian in all ways, spoke differently though. 

In a cold night, in her rooms in Dragonstone as she listened to the sounds of the sea, of the waves crashing against the shores, warmed by the fireplace and drinking watered wine with her guardian by her side, she listened as he said, in his calm and stern voice, that she was alive today _because_ of her so-called shameful betrothal.

Dany always thought he seemed admiring of her future good-father. His eyes went to a faraway place, misting over with memories of the past flashing before him as she watched on, entranced by his tale.

Stannis said he had arrived in Dragonstone to discover her mother still in labour as the worst storm to ever grace the Eastern shores of Westeros raged outside the castle, her brother had already fled with Ser Willem Darry. Stannis told her that her birth took hours and that he never left her mother’s side, for he would not dishonour her. He told her he was the one who held her in his arms as her mother named her and took her last breath.

Stannis told her of how he arrived in King’s Landing with Daenerys in his arms and how Lord Stark was preparing himself to leave, angered by his friend’s acceptance of Elia Martell and her children’s murder, that when he heard of Dany’s survival and that she was in Stannis’ care he didn’t falter in helping, in making sure she would not be killed by the blind fool of a king.

The arrangement was made, the Pact of Ice and Fire was honored and a Targaryen princess would be given to the North, not in the way that was first agreed upon, but Eddard Stark was making sure she would survive and if surviving meant being married to a bastard and shunned by all kingdoms, Dany would take it.

Since those fateful days that followed the agreement of her betrothal to Jon Snow — they were to be wed quickly, as soon as her red flower bloomed, in the North, she would put _her_ cloak on _him_ in front of the Weirwood — Daenerys was groomed to be a Northern lady of the Gift. Stannis always told her he was sure they would be given the Queenscrown’s seat, that Lord Stark was rebuilding it and that he was helping him as he was supposed to. Daenerys learned the stories of the far North, their myths and history, customs and dishes. She learned the Houses and their sigils and their lords, she studied their politics — Stannis always said she would be phenomenal in King’s Landing if she was allowed to play the games of the court, that she was born to rule — and she excelled in everything she learned. Dany learned to fight and to dance, to hunt and to cook, to smile and to attack.

Dany would be a useful wife, unlike the sickly Lady Selyse who was always sitting somewhere, staring sternly at something without ever doing something of worth.

Though groomed to marry and to rule over a castle, Dany couldn’t deny her fears. She feared her young future husband, she feared for a loveless marriage such as her Lord Guardian’s or that Jon Snow would come to be a cruel young boy like Joffrey Baratheon. Dany had learnt the water dance of the Bravoosi, she had her Valyrian sword, a gift from Ser Davos and Lord Stannis upon her conclusion and mastering of the fencing art of the Free City of Braavos, but she still was struck with freezing fear from the very thought of marrying someone slightly resembling the Heir to the Iron Throne.

Even now, mounted on her Silver, her beautiful white steed, and marching towards Winterfell at the tender age of three and ten to marry a boy she never met, with her Lord Stannis and Ser Davos at her side, Dany couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of the vile boy that one day would rule the Seven Kingdoms.

“Are you cold, my lady?” Ser Davos’ warm voice washed over her, sure and playful as always, and she couldn’t help but smile at him, turning her purple irises towards his form.

“Of course not, my lord,” Dany’s hold on her reins tightened as the sultry voice of Stannis’ Red Priestess came from a small distance behind her, mocking the Onion Knight. “My lady is made of fire, the cold of these lands have no effect on her.” She could feel Melisandre’s heavy red stare at her back, and Dany turned around slowly, her lips forming a smile in response before turning back to the road ahead of them, her gaze sweeping around their retinue.

“As the Lady Melisandre says, I do not feel the cold as well as you seem to, my lord,” She takes a deep breath, feeling her long braid sway with the slight rocking of her body. She liked how long her silver hair was, how it always swayed with her every move. “It’s merely the thought of my future husband that haunts me. He’s as much a mystery to me as your Lord of Light, Melisandre.”

Dany looked back at the priestess, but the woman only smiled at her, eyes glinting with satisfaction and glee. Dany turned around again, this time meeting the inquiring gaze of the Onion Knight. She shook her head, smiling and looking towards the road again.

“Your marriage will be worthy of a lady of your station, Lady Daenerys,” Ser Davos assured her. “I’ve heard even magisters from Essos have travelled all the way to Winterfell to see to your marriage, princes and princess of distant lands that we've met in our travels bearing gifts of incredible wealth and luxury.”

Dany smiled softly, smoothing her Silver’s pale mane before looking up at the clear skies above them. It was truly a beautiful day to travel on horseback.

“Yet, all I wish for is my husband to be kind,” She smiled with mischief in her eyes, grinning at her favourite Knight. “Like you, Ser Davos. If so, I’ll be the happiest woman on all lands, for a man with your humour would surely always keep me laughing.”

He barked a laugh, and even lady Melisandre laughed quietly.

 

•••

 

Winterfell was beautiful and haunting and Dany had never been so scared in her life.

The gates of the great castle were opening, Lord Stannis was at the front with Melisandre not far behind, Ser Davos was on horseback beside Dany. She gripped her reins tightly, gulping slightly before pulling the hood of her white fur cape more over her head, wishing she could be back at Dragonstone playing with sweet Shireen.

The castle was great, and their entourage slowly entered the courtyard and around them, she could see soldiers and Stark banners. Their retinue parted as Lord Stannis advanced forward, stopping and jumping out of his horse to meet a tall and broad-shouldered man richly dressed standing on the very front of the greeting party. They shook hands and Dany took calming breaths as she listened to their formal exchange.

“Lord Stannis, it has been a long time since we last saw each other,” Lord Stark’s voice was low, rough and grave, but inviting. He appeared to be a cold man, but Dany could see the kindness in his eyes as they swiftly swept over her guardian and over their party, stopping at her figure, hidden by white fur cape and hood. “I welcome you to the North and into Winterfell.”

“It is a pleasure to be here and make good on our promise.” Stannis’ voice was as stern as always, cutting directly towards his objective. She felt a smirk tug on her lips at his forward attitude.

Lord Eddard thought it as amusing as she did, for he did not take offence, unlike his wife, the lady with Tully red hair, who Dany could see was clearly disapproving of Lord Stannis' uncourtly greeting, pursing her lips.

“May I present you my wife, Lady Catelyn.” Eddard gestured towards the redhead, who curtsied for him.

“Let me present you, our children.” She pointed at a tall, Tully haired boy with sharp blue eyes. “This is our heir and eldest, Robb of House Stark.” Catelyn then pointed toward two girls, a Tully beauty and a Stark beauty, redheaded and dark-haired, one a dutiful highborn lady and the other a wild spirit that Dany thought wanted to be anywhere but there. She could see the mud stains on the smaller girl’s fingers and dress, how her hair was windswept and her long face pouting and frowning at them all. Dany couldn’t help but smile at her. “This is Lady Sansa, our eldest daughter, and Lady Arya, our youngest.” Then Lady Stark pointed to the youngest boys, the youngest couldn’t have more than three name-days, squirming uncontrollably on his tiny feet and dwarfed by his heavy clothes. “This is Brandon and last, our youngest, Rickon.”

The courtyard was covered by silence as Lord Stannis looked at them with hard eyes, examining each of the Stark children with judging eyes. Dany understood perfectly what he was searching for.

She had not heard of one Jon Snow, who she would marry on the very next day.

Lord Stannis lifted his hand, turning his back on the Starks and calling her forward silently. She dismounted her steed with no help, gracefully, being careful with her riding dress and heavy cape as she walked towards them, lowering her hood and curtsying when she stood in front of the Warden of the North and his family.

“I present you, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.” His voice was dry, eyes cutting through the crowd, which now watched her with awe and wariness, finally meeting Lord Stark’s gaze with an inquiring of his own. “She is here to marry your bastard son, yet I haven’t heard of a Snow amongst your children.”

Dany looked at her guardian with amused eyes, finding joy in the shocked glances the Lady Stark exchanged with her husband. She had heard the woman was bitter with the union, that she didn’t enjoy the presence of her husband’s bastard. Stannis had told her Catelyn Stark thought the marriage unsightly, that she thought it was useless to promote a bastard the way Eddard Stark did when giving his bastard a noble wife and a castle to rule over. Dany didn’t know what to think of her but knew she had to prepare herself because the woman could turn her life into hell. She was a dragon, but, still, she was alone within a pack of wolves.

“Of course,” Lord Stark spoke then, turning towards the crowd and waving his hand, commanding someone to approach. From the line directly behind the Stark family came a boy. Daenerys was silently struck with his brooding beauty.

Dark of hair and clean shaved, he was dressed in darker colours than his noble born family. He had a long face and was exquisitely handsome, with grey eyes as dark as the clouds of a storm. His long hair was beautiful, stopping a little bit after his strong jaw and in full ringlets, wild in its curls as his hair shined almost black in the sunlight. He looked solemn and guarded, eyes cold and taking everything in around him, his lips were pouty, full.

Jon Snow was handsome, even at such a young age.

Daenerys dearly hoped he could find her as handsome as she did him.

Oh, Dany knew she was beautiful. The most beautiful in the Seven Realms, many called her, but she couldn’t find the confidence she had grown into when his eyes, cold and brooding, stared at her so deeply as he did now. Jon Snow of House Stark had a strong gaze.

He would grow to be quite the man, she couldn’t help but think.

_My man_ , she thought as she offered her hand in greeting, and he awkwardly bowed over her dainty palm, holding it in his large callused one.

And as he shyly gulped down, averting his eyes back to the ground, Dany knew he would never be like Joffrey.

 

•••

 

They were escorted inside, Lady Catelyn leading her to her temporary chambers as Ser Davos and Lord Stannis walked with Lord Eddard to his solar, Jon Snow and Robb Stark following close behind them. The other children walked inside the castle or remained in the courtyard, watching their guards and their horses being led to their temporary lodgings.

Dany sighed in relief when they entered the castle, immediately being enveloped into its warm embrace, remembering vaguely that the keep was heated by the hot springs flowing throughout all of it like blood flows through her body.

“Comforting, isn’t it?” The Lady of the Castle spoke, voice filled with courtly pleasantries of the South. Dany was grateful for Melisandre’s familiar presence, who followed her closely.

“Yes, Lady Stark.” Dany smiled graciously, steps never wavering as she followed the older woman. “I’ve read about Winterfell so much, I feel as if I’m home.” She looked at the woman by the corner of her eye, hoping against hope that the Lady wouldn’t take offence by her words.

The Lady smiled grimly, eyes straying momently from their path to observe the young Targaryen’s face. Dany felt a shiver run down her spine as the older woman’s sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce through her.

“Then you must be much more prepared than I was when I first came North.” Catelyn Stark smirked at her before turning her eyes ahead, turning sharply to their right. Daenerys followed swiftly, Melisandre by her side with her ever watchful red gaze and steady steps. She turned her violet eyes toward the small windows on the corridor, appreciating the small bits of scenery she could glimpse.

“My Lady Stark didn’t enjoy the cultures of the North, then?” Dany pressed her full lips together in a nervous line, cursing Melisandre for her audacity. Didn’t the priestess see how she would be in a delicate situation on the next days of her life, at least until her home in the Gift was ready for her and her soon-to-be husband’s ruling? She would need to live with Catelyn Stark for years still, married to the favoured bastard son of her husband.

But the woman just kept walking, no visible anger at the priestess’ words were noticeable in her stance nor in her refined face.

“No, I was not. I’ve never been too much of a scholar for other cultures, I’ve learnt of the North by need as all ladies must do.” Dany could hear the lecture in her voice, and she didn’t turn a deaf ear to her. Soon she would be this woman’s vassal, this woman would soon be her liege.

Melisandre chuckled, shaking her head before turning sly eyes to Dany.

“Our young Lady Targaryen is nothing like yourself then, my lady.” At this the woman stopped, turning curious eyes towards the Red Woman.

“I am sorry, but we were not introduced.” Here, she looked at Dany with expectant eyes and she blushed at her carelessness.

“Lady Stark, I am very sorry. Forgive me. This is Melisandre of Asshai, Lord’s Stannis priestess.” _Consort, paramour_ , Dany wanted to say. Melisandre nodded in greeting, red lips smiling slightly at the girl’s reserve.

Melisandre was an odd one in Dany’s life. She couldn’t pinpoint, exactly, when the woman had entered Dragonstone’s innermost court. A bit after the Greyjoy Rebellion or even before that? Dany couldn’t say. But she was always by either Lord Stannis’ side or following Dany like a shadow. Melisandre took care of her with devotion for years, always looking at her as if expecting something of her. Dany always felt scared by her and her lord of light, but, nonetheless, appreciated the woman’s affections.

“It’s truly a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” Catelyn didn’t nod back, looking at her with those sharp Tully eyes before acquiescing to the woman’s greeting.

“Indeed it is.” She smiled warmly, but Dany wasn’t blind to the calculating gleam in her eyes. “There has never been so many Essosi in Winterfell as there will be in your wedding, Lady Targaryen.”

Dany smiled, excitement bubbling in her chest at the thought of so many different people.

“I’ve heard of it,” She spoke, not managing to contain the joy in her voice. She was always a curious girl, eager to learn whatever she could. At seven name-days, she swore she would be the first lady to become a maester. It was one the few stances that she had seen her lord guardian laugh. “I hope that I can speak with all of them. And, please, Lady Stark,” Dany smiled shyly, turning her eyes toward the floor before meeting the lady’s gaze. “You may call me Daenerys.”

The lady nodded, a pleased look adorning her face.

“Lady Daenerys has always has been a brilliant girl,” Melisandre smiled warmly at her, meeting her eyes. Dany could feel her pleasure at the proud look she displayed. “She has learnt so many languages and I bet she knows more of the Seven Kingdoms’ history than any other.”

Lady Catelyn blinked, surprised, before turning towards her with an elegantly arched brow. Dany blushed before nodding, a proud smile on her lips.

“I know High Valyrian the best of all, as my mother language. The Summer Tongue and Old Ghiscari I’ve learned as complements to my studies on ancient history, and, of course,” She looked slyly at Melisandre, who answered with a smile. “Melisandre has taught me the language of Asshai.” She lifted her chin, demonstrating her pride in her studies. “I wish to learn Dothraki, but I find the Old Tongue a much better idea and have started my studies on it.” She frowned a bit, annoyed that she couldn't find suited teachers for either language, and she told Lady Stark so. Dany also knew the trade talk, but that was not something a lady should know, so she decided to keep that to herself.

The woman chuckled, looking at her with wonder, and Dany felt a weight being lifted off of her shoulders.

“A truly remarkable mind, lady Daenerys.” Lady Catelyn nodded, turning around and returning to guide them towards their chambers. Melisandre would stay with her for the night, preparing her for the marriage tomorrow.

 

•••

 

“I think you will be in good hands here, Daenerys,” Melisandre spoke soothingly, brushing her long silver waves with endless patience. They were in front of her dressing table, the Red Woman standing behind her seated figure as Dany observed their reflection in the mirror in front of them. The chambers they were in was spacious, with two bed-chambers connected to a welcoming round room. One bed chamber for her and the other for Melisandre, so that she had the guiding hand of the priestess as she prepared to their coming welcoming feast, and then the marriage on the following day.

They had arrived in Winterfell at sun’s peak, and Dany was immediately guided to her rooms for rest and to ready herself with the Red Woman while Ser Davos and her Lord guardian Stannis made business with the Warden of the North, his heir and Dany’s betrothed. Now, at noon’s end and the night’s beginning, Dany stares at her face in the mirror, preparing to a feast paying homage to her shameful marriage, and she feels empty.

“Are you sure, Melisandre?” The older woman stops brushing her fair hair, raising her red eyes to meet hers on the mirror’s reflection. She laid the brush on the dressing table, letting Dany’s hair fall from her hands and pulling it around her, letting it fall on her chest before gripping her shoulders and laying her chin on the top of her head.

There is no sound in the room other than the hustle of their maids behind them, the candles that scattered around the room was casting a warm glow on their bodies, covered only by light shift clothes.

Dany’s breath shook as she met her purple eyes, reflecting her directly at her.

“You will endure.” The priestess whispered, grip tightening. “You will prevail.” She laid a silent kiss on her her head, lips moving against the smooth texture of her hair. “And you will triumph.”

Her words echoed through Dany’s head as the image of her betrothed passed through her eyes, his shy gaze and his strong grip on her dainty hand scorched to her mind. They would rule together one day. They would rule over a small keep over frozen lands, scorned by the rest of the kingdom but still remembered by all.

Jon Snow would become Lord Jon Snow of House Targaryen, while she would be his beautiful wife, as fair as winter itself, last blood of the damned dynasty of House Targaryen reduced to a minor house in the far North, paying taxes not even to her liege lord but to the Wall that protected the Seven Realms from myths and legends.

She took a deep breath, lifting a hand to brush away the tears in her eyes and closing her eyes for a few minutes before opening them once more. Dany met her reflection, this time, with resolution and boldness.

_If I look back, I am lost._ _If I stick to dreams and fears, I won’t live_.

She smiled, beaming to her reflection, before turning towards her friend. Melisandre drew back, looking down at her with that mysterious look of hers.

“Call for the maids.” She smirked. “I have to dress to impress.”

 

•••

 

The welcoming feast was held in the castle’s hall. The main table was elevated on a dais, watching over the whole of the hall, with both lords, their wives and counsellors seated. There were various tables, the closest to the main one was filled with highborns of both winter fell and the few Lord Stannis had allowed to travel along with them North. The music was enjoyable, with happy tunes funny lyrics, the food was fresh and rustic, and there were only sounds of laughter.

Of course, Dany only noticed all of that much later.

She had dressed in white and red, a long dress that flowed at her hips with the skirt decorated with the smallest of dragons. The bodice was tight and pure white, a daunting neckline that showed the valley of her breasts — not that there was much to see, she was still so young — that had a small chain holding it together, her shoulders were bare, connecting flimsily to the long sleeves. Her arms were protected by long white and sheer sleeves that parted at her elbow, again decorated with small red dragons flowing down her arms. Her hair was braided simply, in the way of the North. Out of her face and still flowing beautifully down her back.

She was to enter the hall on the arm of her betrothed.

Dany waited with Ser Davos and his wife Marya, a gentile woman who had come from Cape Wrath to accompany her husband North. She fiddled with the end of her sleeves, shuffling on her feet in nervousness. Steps could be heard behind them, and she took a deep breath of relief, turning around to meet the oncoming Stark children.

Dany let her eyes search for her bastard betrothed, finding him whispering furiously to both Robb and the Greyjoy hostage. Sansa was ahead of them, eyes glued to her form with Arya dragging her feet towards them. She felt Ser Davos’ squeezing her shoulder in support, and she turned to smile thankfully to him. When she turned back, she was met Lady Sansa barely hidden stare of awe. She smiled uncertainly at her and turned her eyes towards Jon’s, meeting his stare with one of her own.

They all exchanged pleasantries, she tried to ignore the Lady Sansa’s stare and the Greyjoy’s lustful gaze as she shyly approached her betrothed. He offered her his arm, looking deeply into her eyes and she could not have denied him even if she wanted.

She would go ahead of their small group, with Jon. Behind them would be Robb Stark and his eldest sister, followed by Arya Stark and Theon Greyjoy.

When they entered the hall, there were cheers and claps, she could see many people with all kinds of colourations. The hall was dark, but the guests themselves seemed to give it all the colour it needed. Still, it was difficult to focus on anything more than the feel of the boy at her side. His leather was strange on her skin, and his body radiated heat so comforting she thought she was dreaming. Daenerys could feel the strength in his arms, the calluses on his hands were rough against her smooth skin. She dreamed, for a second, of how it would be, a mock fight between them with him with his longsword and her with her smallsword. The North swordsmanship against her water dancing.

They would be in their castle courtyard, away from the judging eyes of Lady Stark and all of her court. They stand there, their master-at-arms not very far and surrounded by _their_ court. She would be in leathers too, maybe even gifted by him, her stance ready as he charged at her and it wouldn’t matter who’d win in the end, they would laugh and help each other stand, maybe kiss each other afterwards before heading back to the warmth of their castle.

Lady Selyse would with no doubt call her stupid, naive and delusional to think it so. But, Dany thought, as she looked up at this boy of hers and he met her gaze with his brooding — and yet so very soft — grey orbs, she could feel him steal her breath away, and maybe that dream of hers wasn’t so far-fetched.

Violet eyes turned away from the deep depths of grey that stared at her with such focus, and she looked instead at the high table, where Lord Stannis and Lord Eddard sat side by side, both watching them with dark eyes. Her hand, held safely in Jon’s, held tight to him as she swept her gaze through the room. Gently, he guided her towards their round table, closest to the high table where the lords were seated.

The all sat, Ser Davos and his wife by her right while Jon was at her left. At Jon’s left was Robb, followed by Theon, Sansa, Arya and then Marya again. They would soon scatter around the room, searching for friends and making merry. But for now, they were to sit and talk as honoured guests and hosts. Dany wished that Shireen was there, though she was too young. Still, she couldn’t see even Lady Melisandre.

Sighing, she let those thoughts drift away, focusing instead on the food displayed on the centre of their table. She could see cheese and some dark fruits, roasted meat that seemed succulent, gravy, pies and much more.

“What would like, my lady?” Jon’s voice was grave and idly she noticed it was the first time she heard his voice. He was still plagued with the awkwardness of youth but was pleasing to hear. She looked up at him, smiling warmly at his soft attention.

“What would you recommend me, my lord?” Her voice was almost a murmur, shy and uncertain. Jon blinked at her, furrowing his brows and turning dark eyes to their overflowing table, trailing his beautiful orbs over each plate before setting onto a roasted chicken on the far side of the table, near Lady Arya. He smiled, eyes going warm and tender, before turning towards her, his gaze closing off and unsure, but trying as she was. 

“Honeyed chicken is one of the best meals we can offer,” She could see the question in his eyes, and she nodded. “Arya,” The young girl was staring sullenly at her plate, a pout on her lips as her posture slouched forwards. Dany smiled. “Arya!”

The young She-Wolf huffed before turning her dour face towards Jon, annoyance clear in her voice as she asked, “What?” Dany hid a smile behind one hand at her petulance. Sansa stared at her sister reprovingly.

“Arya,” She hissed, “Be nice.”

“You’re never been nice to Jon, don’t think you can tell _me_ to be nice to him. I like him better anyway,” Sansa’s whole face went as red as her hair before she turned away from Arya, hurt and shame making tears appear in the corner of her beautiful blue eyes. Robb snickered beside Jon, as did Theon. Ser Davos loved children and loved to watch their shenanigans while his lady tutted in reproach to their small fight. Dany watched, fascinated, as the siblings interacted. Jon shook his head at his sisters.

“Arya, could you please pass the chicken. And be kind to Sansa.” He spoke sternly, but his eyes were gentle, though bashful when he tentatively looked at Sansa. Arya rolled her eyes but did as he asked.

Jon put the plate in front of them both and looked at Dany with inquiring eyes, She licked her lips, before asking for its wings. He smiled and cut the parts she asked for, and she held her empty plate for him to gently put the chicken there.

“Thank you,” Her voice was soft but genuine. He nodded in response.

Ser Davos chuckled beside her and she turned to him with playfully narrowed eyes.

“What amuses you, Lord Seaworth?” She spoke more loudly, enough for the whole of their table to turn their attention to them. Ser Davos acted surprised, putting one hand on his chest and widening his eyes in harmless mockery.

“Me?” She chuckled, nodding. He chuckled also, sharing a look with his wife before looking between her and Jon. “You two that is.” She could feel Jon Snow tensing beside her, and she furrowed her brows. “You already act married, and haven’t exchanged nothing more than pleasantries.” She pursed her lips, eyes showing her displeasure. He smiled in response.

Dany turned towards the bastard sitting beside her, seeing his pout and puzzled eyes, and she smiled thinking about how he was so gallant, helping and guiding her in the simplest of things.

She was sure this shameful marriage would turn out to be the best outcome to her House, for this boy would bring honour to her ancestors.

Dany was sure of it.

 

•••

 

The feast was at its zenith, and all around them, there were screams of joy and laughter, song and wine and food passing everywhere. Lady Arya had gone missing, following some kitchen boys of her age. Lady Sansa had gone to her friends, Jeyne and Beth, Jon whispered to her shyly, further down the hall. Theon was flirting with women somewhere else and Robb was talking with his lord father and her Lord guardian. See Davos, bless him and his dear wife, were speaking quietly to each other seated by her and Jon’s side.

And wasn’t it surprising? Jon Snow, this boy of four and ten, didn’t leave his stranger of a bride. Dany was sure that any other boy, his own trueborn brother even, would have left her to be with the more favourable company. It would only be logical, she thought, for him to search for friends or even lovers instead of remaining in the presence of strangers. But no, Jon Snow stayed with her, talking softly and kindly _with_ her.

They first spoke of the food, he told her of the delicious chicken he had recommended and then they were trying anything and everything on the table. He counselled her on her adventure, showing each plate and explaining what little he knew of it, and in exchange, she spoke of her favourite Southern plates, the far too many seafoods she had endured and how she loved it so, even when she had to eat the same fish for weeks. He laughed at her expressions, at her jokes, and spoke his honest opinion. They then spoke of his siblings, and she of little Shireen and Ser Davos’ sons, who she thought of as siblings all the same. They laughed together, quietly, at Ser Davos’ expense when his wife jested at him and at their married life.

Jon soon came to know her love for history rather than simple songs.

“Sansa loves her songs, she dreams of going South, meeting the Prince, or a knight, and even marrying him.” He spoke with a faraway gaze. His chin was resting on his hand, resting his arm on the table and sitting sideways so he could better speak to her. She had her hands on her lap holding her cup, sitting sideways as well, their eyes rarely strayed from each other. Dany liked to think it was because they were both studying and learning the other, and she liked what she has learned so far.

“What about Lady Arya?” She took a sip of her wine, feeling light-headed. She thought this was, maybe, her third cup. His eyes gazed at her laughingly, taking in her most likely flushed cheeks and drunken look with positivity. His voice was a low rumble, filled with laughter. She didn’t mind. It was nice.

“Don’t let her hear you calling her that.”

“What?”

“Lady.” He brought his fingers up towards his mouth, hiding his pouty lips from her. Jon leaned towards her, his voice lowering as if telling a secret. “She hates being called it.”

And then she barked a laugh, so loud the people around them turned to see her shaking form. Jon looked at her, his face turning red from embarrassment but his eyes danced with her joy. She took deep breaths, hiding her grin behind her hand before leaning conspiratorially to him.

“Me too.” His eyes widened, leaning further towards her, so much she could feel his warm breath on her face. “When younger,” She gulped, mirth bubbling in her chest and her mouth stretched wide in a smile, her eyes sparkled with happiness she was sure. “I’d tell everyone to call me Maester Dany.” She giggled, and he smiled wide at her, shaking his head in fascination. “I’ve always liked to learn things, whatever they were and from whoever wanted to teach me.” Dany sighed deeply, feeling warm and happy. She closed her eyes, enjoying the bliss she felt so deeply in her soul.

She could feel Jon Snow’s stare, heavy and searching, honest and honourable in its intensity. She was truly blessed by whatever gods there were, to have this boy as her husband.

“I’m happy it’s you.” It was her whispered confession, and she opened her eyes to see him looking at her as if lost, not understanding. She wished to soothe him and, in her drunken haze, leaned into him. But a firm hand gripped her shoulder, stopping her advance. Ser Davos appeared standing behind her, his kind voice telling her that she had a wedding the next day, and needed her sleep.

She nodded, never straying her eyes from Jon Snow as she got up, swaying slightly, and left the party.

Her heart pounded in her chest because all she could remember was Jon Snow’s calloused hand on her small shoulder stopping her from drunkenly kissing him, his soft eyes and thankful smile a beautiful contrast in his brooding face.

 

•••

 

“I will love him.” She stared into her guardian’s severe eyes. They were standing at the godswood’s entrance, she in her bride’s ivory gown and House Targaryen’s cape draped over her small shoulders. Stannis Baratheon had stopped their walk towards the ceremony, intending to warn her of the pain the marital life would bring. He warned her that everything could be much more than awful if she didn’t find common ground with her husband.

Dany’s chest was warm with affection, eyes brimming with unshed tears as she stared up at the man that was more of a father to her than the damned memories of a distant Mad King that had the same blood that ran through her veins.

His blue eyes were like the storm that named her, the night was at its beginning and she had passed the entire day preparing herself for it. With Lady Stark, Marya, Melisandre and the Stark girls and their handmaids. Dany herself never truly had a handmaid. Oddly, Lady Melisandre always took care of her, making sure she was ready for whatever event.

“How can you say that?” It was saddening how her guardian didn’t understand this notion of happiness, of conjugal equals. But Ser Davos had taught her that love was possible, rare, rare still for highborn, but  _there_. She would not stop herself from achieving it, she would not give up on it.

After the feast — after those blissful hours with her intended — she knew she would not give it all up. She _would_ love him.

“Because he looks at me in the eyes, and he doesn’t only tolerate me. He listens to me and I to him.” She held tightly to her guardian’s hands, scared but elated. “I know it. In my blood, I feel it.” She took a deep breath. “We will be happy; this marriage will not be a scam and will not be a shame — not to me, not to him.” She can see he doesn’t believe her, that he thinks her nought but a naive child, but Dany knows.

Stannis sighs before turning towards their path, his lantern swinging softly at his movement.

“Whatever happens, you have Queenscrown.” She gasped, her purple eyes wide at his confirmation. “The village and your future castle have been under construction for a few years now, common folk has started to travel up there, though,” He stared at her. “Most are bastards, if not all, but they are willing to move North to a new holdfast. They hope to find favour with the new House Targaryen of the North who will hail a bastardly lord.”

Dany would gladly accept them.

“You must be careful, Daenerys. Do you understand?” His stare was heavy, telling her more than words could ever do. Her eyes grew cold, her jaw setting tightly before she nodded sharply.

House Baratheon of Dragonstone would always favour her and hers.

_Just as I will favour you and yours,_ she thought grimly.

Soon they walked towards the heart tree, the lamps forming a path that was the only thing guiding them in the darkness. Dany felt her tightly braided hair weighing down her head, and her dress hugged her tightly and heavily. After a few seconds, they saw the first row of guests, and she could see the red and white of the heart tree under the lamps’ light. They passed through the foreigners, Southerners and Northerners alike until she was standing in front of the heart tree, facing both her future liege lord and husband.

It took her breath away and warmed her belly, the way he looked at her. His grey orbs weren’t lustful or dismissive. They were warm and friendly and _sympathetic_. She might not be marrying her love, not now; but she surely was marrying a _friend_.

Eddard Stark’s voiced boomed his ceremonial question, but her eyes were only to Jon. Sweet Jon who looked at her reassuringly, willing her to relax and she did.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Lord Stannis, standing before her, had protested at first, saying that she should marry with the ways of the Lord of Light. Funnily, Melisandre, who was often quite forceful in these matters, was silent, but she often was when it came to Dany. But Dany wanted to do this, wanted to marry with her husband’s culture. She would become a Northern lady, and she should do it rightly.

“Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Her guardian’s gruff voice called Jon’s attention for he turned his eyes away from her, though she did not, continuing to observe this humble boy that would be hers as she would his.

Jon Snow licked his lips, furrowing his brow before stepping forward.

“Jon Snow of House Stark, a bastard who seeks her claim, not to claim her,” Her heart pounded in her chest as the crowd behind her whispered, shocked at this daring. She felt tears in her eyes, grateful for him. “Lord of Queenscrown.” She almost laughed at his almost afterthought, bashful, addition of his most likely recent lordship. “Who gives her?”

Her Lord Stannis took longer to answer now, and she knew, though she did not see his face, that he was glaring at the boy’s daring to change the sacred words. Dany was just grateful that Jon did not seek to take the only thing that was hers; her own name.

“Stannis, Lord of House Baratheon of Dragonstone, who she is a ward to.”

Dany turned toward the Silent Wolf, expecting his question and believing in her own answer much more than she did a single day back.

“Lady Daenerys, do you take this man?”

Their eyes met once again, one still very much a stranger to another, but she felt only gratefulness for this peaceful boy who she was sure would grow to be a great man, nothing like the nightmarish Joffrey or the dishonourable King Robert.

She nodded.

“I take this man.”

 


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feast, where Jon and Daenerys meet their guests and investors. One of their gifts raises chaos, ending with words of revolution falling from the wrong mouth. The newlyweds consummate their marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, please be gentle, guys. Smut ahead, first smut ever. I'm so nervous.
> 
> And oh my saint god. What kind of madness was that?! Did I spend two entire days answering reviews? And what about the hit count, kudos, subscriptions and bookmarks? Off the charts! Thank you guys so very much for all the love and support you gave! Here's a new and long chapter for ya all!
> 
> ~Mari

 

To say Jon Snow grew up in tranquillity would be a bittersweet jest.

Firstly, Jon Snow was a bastard to the Lord of a Great House, the Warden of the North who was an intimate friend of the ruling king. His father was already wedded when he brought Jon Snow home, and the bastard was of the same age as his father’s heir. He was his trueborn brother’s best friend. They were taught together all they knew; how to manage their castle and how to fight and how to be lords of _something_.

In another life, Jon would not have grown alongside Robb as he did, Jon knew that every time Lady Catelyn, his father’s wife would stare at him with as much hate as one could muster. But because of his betrothal to the last surviving Targaryen who wasn’t in exile, Jon needed to know lordly things, so that he could support his father’s future plans for the North and for that reason alone Lady Catelyn allowed his education alongside Robb. He needed the high training that was given solely to heirs because his bride was a fucking _princess_ and he would become a _fucking_ lord. 

That’s the second point of Jon Snow’s grooming; his future wife.

Daenerys Stormborn — she was so highborn, she already _had_ a title — of House Targaryen was engaged to him before her first name-day for the sole reason of shaming her family by marrying her off to a Northern bastard. Of course, the only way Jon would ever be arranged in a marriage with someone as important as her — completing a pact as legendary as the Pact of Ice and Fire — would be to humiliate a Great House by ruining its line with bastard blood.

Jon himself thought that King Robert was being a hypocrite. His whole House hailed from a bastard, a rumoured _Targaryen_ bastard!

But that was neither here or there, the point was that Jon already knew, since before he even knew how to write his own name, that he would be espoused to Lady Daenerys. At first, Jon didn’t like the idea, he rebelled in his own mind, swearing he would run away to the Wall and take the black or go to Essos and become a legendary warrior that would bring down khalasars and earn glory to his name. Maybe he’d end slavery. 

The thought of being tied, of being married to a high noble just because the _King_ wanted to humiliate her…Jon despised it.

He loathed the idea in his early childhood when he sat in the library for hours a day, reading every tome on Targaryen history because it would one day be _his_ House; he hated in his room when a boy of seven when he’d remember that he’d never have the chance to choose.

Standing under the weirwood, watching the beautiful girl he was promised to before he even knew how to sit approach him with hopeful eyes and an even stronger will, he couldn’t help but think how foolish he had been.

Jon’s heart hammered in his chest, his eyes staring into her shining violet orbs with all the sympathy he could muster, hoping that she could see how much he understood her, how he was trying and would keep on trying to make the best of their situation. Jon Snow knew he wasn’t alone in this, that he wasn’t the only one that was being used and played as a pawn in the game the king played. More than anything else, Jon knew  — hoped with all of his heart — they would be friends and companions to each other for the rest of their lives.

He had doubted, for years and years, he had doubted the girl would ever agree to him. He expected to be treated with scorn but he found only tentative gentleness in her when she first approached him for their entrance on her welcoming feast. Jon looked at her and saw kinship, and hoped they could live their lives as friends, at the very least.

But, oh, she was beautiful.

White as the snow that named him, more beautiful than anything and anyone he has ever seen; Daenerys Targaryen was a vision and a goddess come true. She was a child still, like him, but Jon had no doubt she would become the most beautiful woman in the world. Daenerys would be his wife, and she’d never had to choose. Unlike him, though, she’d never really had a family. Jon knew she was happy, that life in Stannis’ court was tranquil, stern, but gentle with a girl with a heart as good as hers.

Jon knew a lot about her, a great deal actually.

He knew she was a kind girl with a spine of steel when needed; he knew she traveled with Lord Stannis to Braavos in his trips as Master of Ships and it was there she met her water dancing master, Syrio Forel, a former First Sword of Braavos who she hired and took with her all the way back to Dragonstone; he knew that she had gone to King’s Landing and that her experiences there were of the unpleasing kind. Jon knew a great lot of things, things he was sure he shouldn’t know without Daenerys telling him herself.

His eyes took in her form, in her bright gaze and white dress and silver hair, and Jon was absolutely enchanted and filled with guilt.

Before they kneeled on the ground by the heart tree, Jon let his eyes stray towards the crowd watching them. His eyes briefly met the solemn gaze of his father and the stern stare of his bride’s guardian but Jon turned from them and began looking for the cool eyes of his personal guard — who he was sure was amongst the crowd.

Jon found him quickly, the ever-present cruel glint in Ramsay Snow’s eyes not letting him be missed between all those nobles. When Ramsay’s clear blue eyes met his grey ones, they shone with excitement, the obsessive loyalty of his fellow bastard was a terrifying thing to behold, something that drove him to do horrible things for the good of Jon’s cause.

Whatever that cause ought to be, thought Jon.

Ramsay had warned him weeks past, said that he had heard whispers amongst the Night’s Watch and the few wildlings he had — and, seven hells, Jon did not want to know how he had done it — interrogated. That they had to fortify Queenscrown and the growing town surrounding its construction site.

Ramsay said that the wildlings were getting bolder; more forceful and curious of the growing holdfast in the New Gift.

Jon turned briefly to meet his bride’s beautiful face as they kneeled, sighing deeply when he thought back on the many things they would have to face together and feeling happy that he’d have her to share such a burden with. His mind brought back his foolish dreams of running to the Wall and maybe one day becoming Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and Jon shuddered at the mere thought of having to lead such a place by himself.

He closed his eyes, holding tight to her small hand, and bowed to the Old Gods.

 

•••

 

Robb never tired of saying how jealous he was of Jon, of how he’d always had been a lord and could have a say on his own holdfast and his own household and on and on he would complain, half in jest half in seriousness and Jon, since his tenth name-day, would always bitterly think that his brother should be more grateful for his care-free life. 

Jon had been an unofficial heir for the first ten years of his life. For ten years he was a free boy who’d only dream and dream and complain over his promised wife; and then, at ten name-days, his father brought him up to his solar and sat him down intent on showing Jon the construction plans for Queenscrown, the common folk who slowly was migrating there, the possible contracts with mountain clans, the taxes they needed to settle with both the common folk on Queen’s Town — the town that was slowly forming around _Jon’s_ castle, his _people_ — and the Night’s Watch, his household, and the maester he needed to hire from the Citadel and Jon _woke up._

Be it Lord of ancient Winterfell or new Queenscrown; it didn’t matter for it wasn’t an easy task. People would rely on him and that was not _easy_. He could sentence people to death, he could starve them to death, he could enrich them or drown them in poverty, he would hold their lives in his hands when winter came.

At ten, for the first time, Jon travelled to his holdfast. It was a short travel, silent and grave. Jon took no joy from it.

People flocked around them when they entered the small town in front of the growing fortress, shouting for him, greeting him with _m’lord_ and _little_ _prince_. He had asked his father why’d they call him that and Eddard Stark said they thought him a prince for marrying a Targaryen princess. Ned had looked into his eyes, his entire face going cold and warm in the only way his father could do, and said they called him _Bastard Prince._

It was the second time his father called him a bastard. The only other and first time were when he explained to Jon that he was a bastard.

Queenscrown was built inside a lake. It was grandiose, the stone was strong and white, wide and high the castle went, overseeing all sides of the lake, from the mountains to the forest to the Queen’s Town slowly but steadily coming to life around the water castle’s entrance. The first walls surrounding it were high, as high as the towers in Winterfell, Ned said they took five years to complete it parting from the stone bridge that connected land to the foundation of the holdfast. The castle was thrice higher than its outer walls, delicate and grandiose with its golden ornaments and wide balconies in a different way from Winterfell, which was dark and heavy with thick granite. Jon had thought it would be useless when winter came, but his father assured him of the castle's good architects who designed it so it could retain heat, even with the great balconies.

They hadn't entered the castle, but they stayed at the closest inn to it, renting a room that faced the constructing castle and Jon stared at it for the whole of the night, perched on the small window that gave view to the majestic construction. And for an entire night, the building of it never stopped, the sounds of hammers hitting stone and shouts of orders never once halting. Jon had seen gold, silver and colourful stones and ornamentations that no Northern castle would ever have, so he asked his Lord father, how did you come by so much money? Ned’s eyes darkened, but he answered. The King helped, Lord Stannis would once Jon took Daenerys for a wife and they had several investors from the East; he’d said. Those same investors of the East were the reason for his castle's exotic design, foreign to the North. It was the most impressive — and expensive — thing Jon had ever seen, and it was _his_.

_Theirs,_ he thought, walking toward the Great Hall of Winterfell with his new wife in his arm. It didn’t take long for the whole party to arrive at the hall, where servants had already prepared the feast for the celebration of his marriage. It was greater than the one held previously. This one would mark the presence of lords and magisters, bourgeois and knights. A feast made for a king, who would not appear, Jon knew.

Ramsay said the king thought the marriage of one of the Great Houses of Westeros was beneath him. A marriage that was arranged by him, nonetheless. Jon thought it better this way though, he wouldn’t want the king to ruin his marriage with his dishonourable behaviour.

Jon didn’t like Ramsay, but he did trust the older boy’s information. To a reason.

“The high table,” He whispered to Daenerys, leaning slightly towards her. “We’ll sit by my father’s right.”

Her full lips formed a small smile, eyes going soft as she turned to him. He found it calming.

“The seat of honour,” She teased, but her eyes were warm, serene.

Jon couldn’t understand how she seemed so…good to him. To the bastard chosen to humiliate her. He couldn’t understand her serene smiles, her easy laughs, or relieved confession the previous night. With her soft looks and joyful grins, Jon felt heavy guilt for ever thinking so badly of her.

He smiled, nodding and helping her to her seat at the high table. He pulled the chair for her and she sat, looking over her shoulder and whispering quiet thanks. He nodded, turning to the chair next to her with trembling hands. His father was already in his chair, sitting down and chatting quietly with his Lady Catelyn.

Jon couldn’t remember a day that he’d sat at his father’s right. It was simply not done. A bastard had no place in the most prestigious sit at a Lord’s high table, as Catelyn had made clear so many times throughout his life.

“Jon?” His father’s voice cut through his musings, capturing his attention and making his dark grey orbs turn towards the older man. Ned’s equally dark eyes were gentle, his face offering a rare smile before nodding towards the chair. “Sit by your wife and at your liege lord’s right; today is yours.”

Something like a haze fell over Jon right then, as his father looked at him with thinly veiled pride and his child-wife — as much a child as he was — looked on with faint curiosity. Today was a day to celebrate him and her, to cheer to their union and the future progress they would bring to the far North.

His father celebrated with him, for him.

“Yes, father.” His voice was strong, Jon liked to think. He pulled the chair and sat, sweeping his cool gaze over the crowd that mingled beneath the high table. He felt a small hand envelop his larger one and he turned towards his small wife to find her giving him a soft smile.

“Husband,” His breath hitched, throat tightened, and it dawned on him that they were husband and wife. Still, it would only be real when they were to bed each other. Thinking of the bedding only brought blood rushing both to his cheeks and groin, and he averted his gaze quickly while nodding at her. “Would you guide me on what meal should I partake first?” A smirk danced on his lips at the memory of her curious and delighted face on the previous night, when he’d helped her on what to choose for a meal. Jon turned toward the table in front of them, eyes roaming over each plate, both Southern and Northern, before setting on one of the various Northern pies prepared. The one that caught his attention was one of his favourites; Cook Gage’s beef-and-bacon pie.

He smirked, quickly gathering the pie in his hands and bringing it closer to them. Jon ignored his father’s chuckle and deftly cut one piece for his lady, putting it on her plate and then doing the same for him. All the while, his voice softly explained the simple meal for her.

“It’s beef and bacon pie, there’s onions, raisins, pepper, red wine and some other things in it, but it’s still very simple and sweet.” He gave her a small smile. “I think you’ll like it.” He leaned closer to her, lowering his tune. “It’s one of my favourites.” He leant back and smiled at her more openly and she responded in kind, cutting her pie and bringing one piece to her full mouth.

Her pleased hum brought delight to him; at least she found his suggestions on food good enough.

“It’s wonderful, my lord!” She giggled, bringing a hand up to cover her still full mouth. She swallowed and turned to him. “Your favourite, you say?” He nodded and she turned toward the table again, her beautiful orbs moving quickly over the plates before settling on one small dish with roasted balls of some kind pilled in it, she pointed silently at it and he nodded in acquiescence, asking his lord father to pass it on to him and then putting it in front of her. “These,” She captured one of the little balls of roasted meat between two slender fingers, bringing it to her eye level and then gently offering it up to him. “Are elk meatballs,” She smiled and brought it to her lips, biting into it, never taking her eyes off of him as her cheeks turned red, as his no doubt were turning in that very moment. “They are stuffed with blue cheese.”

This time her voice was shyer, eyes turning away in embarrassment at her forward actions. But she smiled when turning away from him, laughing quietly, and he allowed himself to smile at her. Jon took one of the meatballs and threw it into his mouth. Daenerys turned back to him, looking expectantly at his reaction.

He blanched at the strong taste.

“It’s great.” His strained voice tried to reassure his lady, his fingers twisting in a nervous tic at her blank face.

Jon almost exploded with embarrassment when she laughed loudly at him.

 

•••

 

The feast raged around them, laugher and conversation as loud as they could be, music rang in his ears as the people mingled and partied, forgetting momentarily about their harsher world. It was not the case for Jon and his young wife.

They stood together beneath the high table, her arm looped around his, as they waited for their guests to meet with them, offering gifts and pretty words of congratulations, most, if not all, coming from their Essosi investors.

The rich lords of the East were treacherous and not to be trusted, Jon knew. His lord father had let their odd interest in Queenscrown slide aside, shaking away their interests in investing so much gold in their keep with merely a second thought. Jon hadn’t questioned at first, deciding to take after his father’s honourable decision and simply accept their offerings, and hadn't thought of the matter for years. It was one of the reasons Jon had advisors, to tell him that to do so would be a horrible mistake.

Maester Yandel was the maester sent from the Citadel to serve Jon and Daenerys in their new hold, the young maester was one of the promising minds of the order, one of their most notable members and scholar of the Targaryen dynasty. Jon understood that he had taken to come all the way up North for the sole reason of having freedom over the writing of his remarkable book, The World of Ice and Fire, for he didn’t wish to be limited by the king’s vices and dislikes of the Dragons. Though at the ripe age of five and twenty, the man had the wisest mind Jon had ever seen. They’d met recently, knowing each other for only a few weeks, but they had an honest relationship in which Jon made sure to let it be clear that he didn’t wish to be coddled. He knew of his young mind and body and knew better than to turn a deaf ear to good counsel.

And the first words that had left the man’s word when they had first sat together to discuss the matters of his holdfast had been; _why did the magisters waste so much gold with ruins in the far North?_

Jon remembered to have blinked at the question, looking at the castle’s plants displayed on top of his desk inside his small solar, looking at all the notes and papers upon papers of contracts and supplements' records, then looking into the man’s blue eyes and saying, naively, ‘I don’t know’.

The man had told him, then, that he needed to find out.

And figure it out he did, Jon thought bitterly as he met the piggy eyes of Illyrio Mopatis, their first and foremost investor, as he led the bigger part of their Essosi guests to stand before him and Daenerys. His hand curled around her arm and he leaned down slightly, his mouth hovering over her ear.

“He is Illyrio Mopatis, an investor from Pentos,” Jon frowned, unsure on how to go on, but noticed her focused stare, the slight straightening of her spine and set of her shoulders, and decided to share with her a warning. “A most forward investor, very generous.”

Daenerys turned to meet his eyes, an eyebrow lifted in confusion.

“Magisters are not generous.”

Jon sighed, nodding tiredly and turning back to the oncoming Essosi party.

“Aye, they aren’t.”

“Lord Targaryen!” The obese man shouted, a greasy grin on his face as he opened his arms dramatically, his belly and saggy tits bounced with his movements and his hair shone orange on the candlelight. Jon nodded in greeting — ignoring the part of him that blistered at being called a Lord — as did Daenerys.

“Magister Illyrio,” He hoped his voice didn’t fail him now. “It’s an honour to finally meet you. I want to thank you for all the gold you have investedin our home.” There, he’d said his thanks and now he could play the stupid game of words without having to think on his gratitude too much.

The man chuckled, shaking his head amusedly as one of his fat hands stroked his forked yellow beard. His eyes went then to Jon’s wife, sliding over her young form slowly. Jon could feel his jaw setting, grinding his teeth in anger at his daring. But Samwell Tarly, his good friend and faithful steward, taught him patience above anything else. He had to make a good face with those people. So he only stroked Daenerys’ arm with his thumb when he felt her tense. Only he heard her low gasp of surprise.

The man laughed, his flesh bouncing in a most perturbing way. Jon could feel the laughter building in his chest and he turned to Daenerys, but she was already looking at him. She quickly looked at the chuckling man and then back at Jon and they both bit on their lips, equal grins growing in their lips.

“It is indeed!” The man turned fully to Daenerys. “My Lady Targaryen, I hope you enjoy the gifts I bestowed you. Not of much use, but they will certainly be a great treasure for your House, I’m sure.” His voice was sly and his smirk provocative. Jon suddenly didn’t want the most likely true treasure the man presented them with that was most likely waiting for them in their chambers.

His lady wife tilted her head curiously, her hair shining elegantly and almost matching the colour of her wedding gown.

“Gifts?”

The man smiled but did not answer her.

“But enough of that,” He clapped his hands in front of him, brought one of his fat hands up in the air and snapped his fingers, pointing a finger towards them. Jon saw as, immediately, three women stepped forward until they were kneeled in front of them, bowing with their temples pressed on the floor. “I deliver gifts of another for you.”

One of them was blonde, with long and slick hair. The other two were of similar appearance, with dark copper skin and black hair. Their clothes were Northern but ill-fitted, and their appearance was tired. Jon could feel his hands shaking and he gulped, slowly looking up away from the women — the  _slaves_ — at his feet and meeting the calculating gaze of Illyrio Mopatis, the man who dared to bring slaves North of Westeros as gifts.

The table behind him was silent, and Jon could hear the thundering of his heart as he gulped down. Daenerys’ hand gripped tightly to his arm and Jon was grateful that she understood what was happening.

His lord father _hated_ slavery.

Jorah Mormont’s fate reverberated in Jon’s mind, the man’s escape of his death sentence cursing him to exile. Jon feared his father would put the same fate to him for being offered slaves so openly.

Ned could think Jon was approving of it, that maybe he had been meddling with slavery since the past year he had let Jon be with his duties, no more guiding him unless Jon asked for it. And if it was so — if his father believed he meddled with slavery — then Jon would be sentenced to die, for slavery was a crime that was answered with death. But what about his wife? His hold? His friends and allies who guided him throughout his journey until this very day, where he and Daenerys finally claimed lordship over their castle? And the city that grew around his keep, already relying on the trades and securities that were offered by him?

What about his people?

“You dare to offer slaves to my son and good-daughter!” His father’s voice boomed in the great hall, silencing all in the room. Jon dared not to breathe too loud.

“Jon…” He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not even when she worriedly tugged at his arm. Distantly, he took notice of her calling him by his given name for the first time.

“I understand the existence of your dishonourable practices but I did not think you would dare to bring them here into my home!” Ned’s voice was as cold as the Valyrian sword Ice, cutting through Jon’s mind as easily as it did to all the men he had watched his father cut heads off. “I welcomed you and agreed to your help in my son’s future, but I will not accept this.”

“Jon…” Her words were muddled, but he noted they were more desperate. He wished to reassure her, to bring her peace of mind. But he could find neither in himself to do so.

“They are no slaves, my good Lord Stark.” The man’s voice was confident still, and it caused a fire to rouse up in Jon’s belly. Rage filled him as he focused on the distasteful man in front of him, and he took a step forward, intent on doing _something_ — anything — to end the man’s madness. “I took them from slavery, offering them another life in exchange of their price in gold.” Deaneries pulled him back to her, both arms hugging his right arm close to her and stopping Jon from advancing on the man.

“What kind of life? You think we will take slavery into our trades?” He could feel the stillness in his lord father’s voice. _Winter is coming_.

“No, my lord. A life in court.” The cheek in the man’s voice, his arrogance and devilish smirk as he looked at Jon’s father was maddening. The pig’s eyes turned to Daenerys, and Jon wished for nothing more than a sword in his hands to cut the man’s head off. “As my Lady’s handmaidens.”

Daenerys pulled him to her with all her might, twisting so she was in front of him and pressed the back of her body to his front. She stopped him from ending all alliances they had in Essos.

“Why?” Her voice was strong and filled with power. It made him stop in his tracks and look down at the crown of his little wife’s head. Daenerys’ voice was loud for all to hear, no hesitation and no fear as it echoed as much as his father’s voice did in the great hall. Jon swept his gaze through the first few rows of guests that were close to them, most of them were of the North, Lords and their heirs. They looked at her in surprise, a few eyes glinting with— dare he say it? — interest.

Illyrio nodded at her and pointed, first, to one of the copper-skinned ones, both appearing to be close to age to Jon and Daenerys. The one he pointed was bigger boned than the other, with larger shoulders and hips, as well as heavy breasts.

“This one is Jhiqui, a Dothraki woman with knowledge of both the common language and the Dothraki one.” Illyria smiled, showing his yellowed crooked teeth. “I heard my lady is fond of languages, you’ve spoken with many a guest here in different languages.” He nodded to her, his piggy eyes looking at her beneath short lashes. “You honoured us with your young wisdom and wit.”

Daenerys did not answer to him.

He pointed then to the other copper skinned one.

“This here is Irri. She knows of the Dothraki way of the horse. She will teach you how to master a horse and become its lady as the horse lords of the East.” Then he pointed to the blond one, the oldest of the trio. “And this is Doreah, a whore of Lys.” Jon’s lips pursed in displeasure, and the entire hall erupted in scandalized whispers at the magister’s next words. “She shall teach you about the arts of the bed.”

Jon tried to walk away from Daenerys, intent on taking the man’s life for dishonouring her so. It was enough that their whole marriage was a ploy of the king to see her family shamed, now the man wanted to display their future bed life to all?

But his lady stopped him once more, with nought but a gracious twist and nudge of her body.

“Enough! I’ll have none of this!” His father’s voice boomed once again. “Guards!”

“Wait!” His wife turned around, and Jon saw her face, beautiful and ethereal, as she looked up at the high table. Her violet eyes shone with determination, with a shrewdness that took his breath away for a minute. “This is a matter of House Targaryen of the North.” Others, so far as they were from her petite form, couldn’t see her sharp intake of breath, the way her chin trembled slightly when she ended her phrase. But Jon could, and he understood. _It is a matter of our House._ “Let us take care of it.”

Jon looked at her with wide eyes, his breath coming and going quickly out of his mouth.He could feel a heavy weight on his shoulders, and he deemed it responsibility. And as he looked at her trembling form slowly coming together, at the way she gathered herself up and lifted her chin in defiance to this weight he had no doubt she felt as heavily as he did, Jon knew he could not let her do it alone. Incited, he let his body mirror hers, turning to face his father with her.

When his father’s gaze fell on him, Jon did not know what the older man saw. Was it Jon Snow, his bastard son, in his marital clothes, doublet made of the finest silk and clothed in the red and black of his new House? Or was it Lord Targaryen, standing as tall as his teenaged body could, in fine clothes that were given to the new lord of Queenscrown, for he had nothing but gifts handed to him, with nothing to his name but the Snow that marked him as a bastard and the House name his wife gave him?

It did not matter, Jon thought as he stood shoulder to shoulder, side by side, to his lady wife and stared up at his liege lord.

Ned nodded.

Jon and Daenerys turned to the three slaves kneeled in front of them. Jon made himself seem taller, puffed his chest out and lifted his chin as Daenerys stood with her hands clasped at her waist. He hoped she had a plan in mind.

Her head turned imperceptibly to him, and he met her gaze. Jon pleaded her to go ahead with whatever she had planned to do. He was genuinely lost but knew they needed to follow along and show that they were strong on their own, not only on what his father or their investors did or gave. She nodded and took a step ahead, and then another, and until she was merely at arm’s length of the kneeled women. Jon could see that the one named Jhiqui was trembling slightly.

“Rise.”

He watched as all three of them stood. And it terrified Jon how much emptiness there was in the Lysene woman’s blue eyes. The other two kept their eyes lowered and their bodies submissive.

Jon looked at each of them and scorched their faces and names to his memory.

“Each of you came here to leave a life of chains behind,” His wife’s voice was clear and loud, and Jon could see their crowd watching on with hungry eyes. Jon knew the whole of the Seven Kingdoms would speak of whatever happened here. “Each of you looks at me and see, perhaps, a better life than what you had.”

Daenerys’ shoulders were tense, and he thought that she was uncomfortable standing there, alone, supporting the gaze of the whole of the North and parts of the South and East by herself.

“You see no life but this one of following me, thinking that then you’ll live in freedom.” Jon took a deep breath, and stepped forward, slowly but surely approaching his silver wife. “But I think you are wrong so I give you all a choice.” He stopped beside her and looked each of them in their eyes in the same way his wife was doing beside him. “You may continue by my side, find your place as my handmaidens as you initially came here to,” Daenerys’ voice rose louder, and Jon swept his eyes toward Illyrio, who watched them with mystified eyes. “Or,” Daenerys’ voice was louder, loud enough to echo in the room that same way his father did. “Or you may deny it, and choose where you want to settle and I’ll happily help you, providing means and funds to secure you enough in your journey.”

Jon saw as Illyrio’s eyes darkened, and the room remained silent. Jon turned away from the magister to see the women’s reaction. The Dothraki duo stared at the floor still with wide eyes, wide eyes full of doubt. Doris looked at Daenerys with eyes full of resentment, of sadness and resignation. He frowned.

Illyrio’s laugh was thunderous, he clapped his hands and walked towards them with challenging eyes.

“You jest, my lady.”

The man towered over them both, but Jon didn’t falter, nor did Daenerys.

“Do I?” She asked cooly.

“Yes,” The man said then, with more force to his voice. Jon looked around the room, searching for Ramsay, his personal guard was never far from him and he needed to be sure his friend was close if it came to the protection of Daenerys and himself. “You do.” The man turned, grabbed Doreah’s chin and turned her face slightly as one does to inspect one's merchandise. “You have nothing to your name that wasn’t given, so with what profit will you pay these two?”

Jon thanked the Old Gods that his siblings had all retired to bed, with the excuse of Robb and Sansa, who he could see lurking on the front row closer to them.

Ramsay was hidden a few rows back, his eyes glued on the magister’s head as he fingered the dagger Jon had no doubt was hidden in the boy’s doublet. And his father questioned him why he named such a young boy as his personal guard. Only Ramsay could manage to bring a weapon with him even when the guests were searched for them.

Jon could feel Daenerys’ desperation at the magister’s words. It was in the way she exhaled quickly out of her mouth, on how she shifted her stance slightly forward as if in frustration — wanting to reach the subject of her frustration and confront him — and he answered swiftly, knowing of their economic situation better than anyone else.

He handled them himself.

“We can because we have acquisitions of our own.” His voice cracked a bit, and he could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. He grunted, looking at his wife, expecting to see ridicule in her eyes but only seeing her hopeful and encouraging gaze. He looked back at Illyrio, meeting his narrowing stare and cleaned his throat, speaking once more with more certainty. “Trade has been happening quickly in our lands,” Jon looked at the people in the great hall. He could see Robb and Theon, Sansa and her friends looking at him with wide eyes, the Umber Lord and Karstark Lord and many others. Closer to Ramsay he could see Roose Bolton staring at him with cold, calculating eyes. He looked back and met his father’s approving stare, giving Jon his evident approval in revealing the discoveries Jon had made in the past year. And then, Lady Catelyn, looking at him with blank eyes. He turned back, face hardening and chin rising. “We already have pledges of fealty to House Targaryen, fealty of small mountain clans,” That caused people to murmur amongst themselves. He knew what they were asking. What worth was there to mountain clans? Jon smirked. “With them, we have found mines upon mines of precious stones and metals and even silver. We are in the current search for gold in the mountains surrounding…” He looked at Daenerys, who looked at him with shocked eyes. “Surrounding our lands.” He moistened his lips with his tongue, turning back to Illyrio, who stared at him with a keen gaze. “So you see…” Jon nodded his head to the three women who _would_ be free to choose their own destiny; be it with them or by themselves. “We can certainly grant them their wishes.” Jon then swept his eyes over each and every magister and investor that stood before him. “We will, in due time, pay every debt we have to each of you.”

Jon then looked at Daenerys, nodding to her. He could see his own reflection in her large purple eyes, clear and beautiful for him to see before she hardened herself once more to face their crowd.

“What do you choose?” She spoke quietly, kindly, to the three women staring at her. The Dothraki women, no, girls had tears in their eyes and the Lysene woman looked at them as if seeing the gods themselves.

Irri, the slender Dothraki girl, fell to her knees and bowed deeply.

“ _Khaleesi_ … _Khal_ …” She looked up at them before pressing her forehead to the ground, and Jon did not know what to do. He wanted her to get up, there was no need for her to kneel.

Jhiqui followed her. She kneeled once but did not stay bowed as Irri did, looking up at him with tearful almond-shaped eyes.

“We thank you, _Khal_ Targaryen.” Her voice was heavy with an accent he assumed as Dothraki. He jerked a nod, quickly helping her to her feet, and then helping the other girl. They rose quickly and then bowed once more, taking a step back and letting only Doreah of Lys stand before them.

She had tears in her eyes, a slip of hope shining in them.

Jon wondered how many times freedom was offered to her.

“I can choose...”

He saw his wife’s head turning to him and he met her inquiring gaze. Jon smiled, saying without words that all would be fine. She turned her purple eyes back to Doreah with a smile.

“Say only your destination, and you’ll go as soon as possible.” Daenerys stepped forward, her hands grasping at the woman’s and never turning her eyes away. The woman smiled at her. It was strange to have someone older looking at him with such regard as Doreah did that very moment. She took her time in looking at them, before bowing deeply over Daenerys’ hands still holding her own.

“Then I shall stay with you, my lady.” Jon sighed, meeting Daenerys’ gaze with his own. They exchanged small smiles before she tightened her hold over Doreah’s hands, letting them go and walking forward until she stopped in front of Illyrio.

“It seems that all was resolved without bloodshed.” Daenerys curtsied, as befitting of a lady of her position. “I thank you, Magister Illyrio, for bringing such talented handmaidens to my household.” Her voice was music, melodic and pleasing to hear. Jon didn't doubt it could lull anyone to sleep despite its childish aspect.

“You have great charisma, my lady.” Jon looked coldly at the man, as did his wife, he had no doubt. “You too, my lord, I see that you didn’t stay idle in these years before taking your lordship.” Jon only stared back at the man.

Daenerys curtsied once more before walking back to Jon’s side, turning around to stare right back at all the eyes that looked upon them, now, with apt attention. They had proved their worth and showed they had their own weapons and means. Jon’s breath shook and he could feel his blood boil, as around them it was made known the power of their House. The power they were garnering in their frozen lands.

“Let it be known!” Daenerys’ voice boomed through the room once more, jolting him off of his musings as he turned toward his fiery wife. “I want you all to tell the whole of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond!” Her young voice had still a high note to it, remains of a childhood that seemed so distant now. “Tell all who want to listen, Queenscrown is no mediocre hold! Tell them that we are strong! Tell them that we preach for liberty!” Jon looked at his wife with wide eyes, not believing in her audacious speech — it could be called treason as it was from her mouth that these words had fallen from! — but still mesmerized by her gaze and inspiring words. She opened her arms, sweeping her violet gaze around the room. “Let it be known that in Queenscrown there is a place for anyone to prove their worth! Be it a woman or a man, of noble birth or not, a slave or a bastard; it does no matter!” She let her arms fall, one hand grasping to his with such strength he thought she could tear through his limb. “We welcome you!” She lifted her chin, eyes dancing with fire.“We, Lord Jon and Lady Daenerys of House Targaryen of the North, welcome you.”

Strangely, or not, Jon would think years later, those who yelled in accordance to her were, in their most, servants and all of those that resided at the very end of the great hall, where prestige wasn’t found.

 

•••

 

After such a speech, there was no bedding ceremony.

Thank the gods, thought Jon as he was pulled by his father towards the man’s solar. He was sure he would not have survived the embarrassment of having his clothing being torn apart by ravenous women.

They had been quick to dispatch the party after that. His wife's new handmaidens were quickly led by a servant to a room of their own, and the magisters were all too quick to make amends with them. Jon saw greed in each of them. The Northern lords were quick to speak them, nodding to him in appreciation. At least Jon liked to think they were.

Soon, they were all heading away from the great hall.

Daenerys was being pulled along, her — previous, she’s Jon’s now, as he is hers — Lord guardian Stannis pulling at her arm as they quickly ascended the steps leading to Eddard’s solar. Behind them were Lady Stark, the red woman who’d arrived with the Baratheon’s retinue and the Onion Knight. Maester Luwin was waiting for them by the door already, his face showing the worry he felt for them. Beside the old man was Ramsay, looking at Daenerys with a stare Jon remembered as the one he had after he finally had words with the boy after he had had enough of Ramsay's initial uncooperative and callous behaviour.

The Bolton bastard had arrived at Winterfell when Jon was two and ten. He had been sent as the Bolton’s contribution to the new household of the North. When Jon first met him, all the older boy ever did was to insult him and Queenscrown. He spoke ill of everything, laughing at them cynically and always flaunting about his apparent lover, Myranda, and how much better she was in comparison to the ‘white dragon bitch’.

Jon was always quick to anger when coming to these things; his castle, his future wife and his own station as bastard and heir to a new holdfast. But for the sake of making allies, as Maester Ludwin advised him on those dark days of Ramsay’s first arrival, he tolerated the boy and his insults. Until he didn’t, so he had acted on the building violence that raged inside him.

The result of that beating was the same look Ramsay now directed at Daenerys. Jon now knew he had not to worry about his wife’s well-being when regarding his definitely unstable guard. Because after weeks of the same contemplating stare came the fierce loyalty that Ramsay had for Jon now. The sick obsession that made the older boy do anything for Jon’s well-being.

They entered the solar and the maester closed the door,  quickly waking to his father’s side in front of his heavy desk. Ned had released his arm from his iron grip, and Jon stood before him with peculiar calm. Daenerys walked quietly until she was standing by his side, her shoulder brushing against his upper arm. She was very tiny, Jon noted idly, and he wasn’t the tallest of boys.

Lord Stannis stood rigidly beside Lord Stark, his eyes dark. Lady Catelyn stood by the door, Jon could feel her cold stare upon the back of his head. The red woman had stepped forward until she faced a window, looking at the distance beyond Winter’s Town outside Winterfell. Jon could feel Ramsay standing behind him, slightly to his left. He looked down at the ground, gulping before rising his stare to meet his father’s solemn eyes.

“What you just did,” Lord Baratheon’s voice was hard to decipher, grunting and low. “Was exceptionally unwise.” His lips pressed firmly, eye narrowing to the girl standing beside Jon. “Do you understand the consequences of such an act?”

“It is simply not done,” His lord father brought a hand to his temples, eyes closing as if in pain. “One simply does announce an invitation to one’s keep in such a way.” His father sighed deeply. “Robert could take this as treason, don’t you know?” He chuckled mirthlessly, shaking his head. “Words of liberation could only mean treason when coming from a Targaryen to him at least.”

“But it wasn’t what I meant!” Jon’s wife took a step forward, hands balling into tight fists. “Not like that!” Jon could see the way her shoulders fell in defeat, big violet eyes looking at them helplessly. “I don’t want his throne and I couldn’t let that magister put us down with slaves as _gifts_! And I couldn’t let them fall back into his hands!”

“And you did right, my lady.” Maester Luwin nodded quickly. “But you could have been quiet afterwards.”

“Yes, child.” It was Catelyn that spoke, surprisingly. “A lady cannot afford to have such ilk in her home, and you cannot hope to gain favour with the king uttering such words.” Jon felt his lips twist bitterly, for he knew it was a jab at him and Ramsey.

“Oh, please!” Jon blinked at his wife as she turned around sharply, the frustration evident in her voice and face as she stared at the older woman. “My _husband_ is a bastard!” He turned his eyes away, feeling hurt at her harsh words. “I’ve met him for barely a day and I know for sure he is thousands of times a better man than the cruel monster that will sit on the throne after our fat king!”

“DAENERYS!” The Lord Baratheon’s yell was as piercing as Lady Catelyn’s words, and it struck the younger girl like thunder, just as her words struck Jon breathless. She immediately turned away from Lady Catelyn, her gaze downturned and mouth sewn shut. Daenerys stared at the ground guiltily but did not apologize for her words. “Watch your mouth, child. I’ve taught you discipline, I want you to show it.” She nodded morosely, but Jon could see she was hurt. Biting his lips, he gently laid a hand on her shoulder, hoping to show his support for her. She looked at him with surprised violet eyes and smiled gently in appreciation. He nodded in response before turning to his lord father.

“Maybe we can turn this in our favour, father.” He felt the awkwardness growing in himself, uncomfortable at the attention of the room turning towards him. But he ignored his discomfort and focused on the words that needed to be said. “We could send word to other Houses, to other towns, that we seek to be a refuge to those that think they have no destiny in the realm.” He stared at his wife with solemn eyes before meeting his father’s gaze once more. “We need to increase the numbers in our household, in any way possible. Samwell,” He turned to Daenerys, explaining to her quietly. “He is our steward. You will like him, I’m sure.” He looked back at his father, blushing slightly at his amused stare. “Samwell has said we are in need of people to fully administer the castle and its relations with the surrounding town.” Jon turned once more to Daenerys, blushing. “Queen’s Town, it’s growing steadily at our hold’s entrance, my lady,” And then he met his father’s eyes once more.

There was silence in the room, and then he could hear Ramsay’s snicker, disguised as a cough.

Jon cursed him to seven hells for his inconvenience.

“It’s a sound idea.” Jon thanked Lord Stannis for not commenting on his fumbling behaviour. “It would grant you favour with the people, but it’s still an open invitation for spies and unsightly people.”

“My lord,” Ramsay’s mocking voice was as irritable as ever, even when speaking to the brother of the king. “That will not be something to worry about. Spies and…” He giggled. Ramsay _giggled_. Gods help him, Jon thought, for he would strangle his friend after all this mess. “ _Unsightly_ _people_ have no place in the grounds of my lord Snow.”

Stannis lifted an eyebrow.

“And who are you to say so?”

Jon immediately stepped forward, intent on introducing his guard before he made a fool of himself with his strange humour and flair for dramatics. He was too late.

Ramsay took a large step forward, bowing deeply with one arm behind his back and the other dramatically rising upwards.

“My name is Ramsay Snow!” He lifted his upper body, blue eyes glinting in a way only his could. “Lord Snow’s personal guard and…” He giggled again. Gods, he was embarrassing. “Master of whispers AND!”His smile fell, face going slack with the cold cruelty that he showed to those he deemed lower than him. “Master interrogator.”

Jon saw his father’s disapproving shake of his head, his dark eyes meeting Jon’s with a warning that often was there when Ramsay was involved.

It was common knowledge that Ramsay was a cruel man that cared for nothing short of Jon’s continuing progress in power. Since the Bolton bastard decided, in his twisted dark mind, that Jon was worthy of his loyalty, he had started to create a web of information gathering throughout all of the North that was equitable to the Spider's in King’s Landing. Laughably calling himself master of whispers, the man had agents in all of the North and the South, some whispered he even had influence Beyond the Wall, spying on Mance Ryder daily.

It was also known that the older boy had no scruples in using violence upon his targets so he could get the information his lord needed. Jon didn’t approve and made sure to stop his guard every time he could, but Jon knew Ramsay still did it out of his sight.

It was Ser Davos who spoke next, and Jon jumped slightly in surprise as the voice of the Onion Knight came from behind him. He had almost forgotten of the man’s presence.

“Interrogator, you say?” The man’s voice was careful, and Jon didn’t blame him. Ramsay did appear to be as crazy as one can be, and Jon didn’t doubt one bit of his insanity.

“Aye,” Ramsay’s voice was bored now, sighing heavily as if he was losing his time standing there. Jon resented his friend sometimes — for more flawed that Ramsay was, Jon still thought of him as his friend and sometimes Jon questioned his own sanity because of it — because he knew Ramsay could act as one deemed ‘normally’. But since Jon accepted him in his service, Ramsay simply didn’t care for crafting a mask for other people’s comfort. “At least I try to be,” He looked slyly at Jon while leaning towards Daenerys as if telling her a secret. “Lord Snow doesn’t appreciate much of the art of interrogation.” He looked at her then, winking at the Lady. Jon could sympathize with her puzzled face. He often had the same face when dealing with Ramsay’s eccentrics. 

“Ramsay can appear a bit…odd.” Jon glared at his friend’s snicker. The older boy often laughed at his wording. He then looked back at Stannis, face grave. “But his work is true. There is no one better than him.” His eyes went to Daenerys, who observed quietly. His words came out softly. “Our home will be safe with his help.”

For a moment, there was only them both. Him and his stranger of a wife.

Her rich violet eyes were otherworldly to him, as colourful as the precious jewels of their lands. Her hair, seemingly made of the silver he found in the mines in the mountains surrounding their castle, shone with the candlelight. He remembered how long it was from the previous day, both at her arrival when it was held tightly into a single braid running down her back, and on the welcoming feast in its simple Northern hairdressing. Her wedding gown was daringly light in the cold weather with only the slight details of fur on its neckline.

She took his breath away with her beauty, and she robbed his attention with her magnetic charisma. Jon had thought he would be wedded to a girl like Sansa or Catelyn, and he had prayed for someone as kind to him as Arya. Daenerys was none.

Her free laughs and smiles, given as easily as the winds blew, conquered his friendship more easily than anyone else ever did. The way she relied on him and was still strong on her own was relieving and a fresh breath of air from years of quiet solitude he had faced since coming to his responsibilities at ten name days. The way she held herself and the way she spoke, her way with words evident in her bold speech in the great hall…She would grow to be quite the woman, he thought to himself. He hoped that they could grow well together.

“Well then,” Ser Davos clapped once, taking them from their reverie and making Jon turn scarlet as he noticed all in the room looking at them.  Ramsay tittered behind one of his hands, mocking him surely. Good gods, how he hated the damn boy. “It is time for you newlyweds to, uhum, do your duty so to speak.” Then he coughed, no doubt hiding a laugh at them. “So let us retire for the night.”

“Yes, yes,” Maester Luwin nodded quickly, already at the door and only waiting for Lord Stark’s confirmation. “We shouldn’t have interrupted the ceremony, but it was a far too important matter.”

His lord father’s eyes were dark, his whole posture resigned as he searched for his wife’s eyes. Jon didn’t have to look back at Lady Stark to know her face was as blank as her own husband often was.

“Yes,” He finally sighed, turning away from them. “Jon, show to your wife the way to your chambers. Your gifts and belongings have already been transferred there.”

Jon gulped, the memory of the bedding suddenly overwhelming him. He thought back to quarters that were assigned to them for years already. Where he would live with his Daenerys for a few weeks still until they headed to their own keep.

Looking at her, he could see the bit of fear that clouded her eyes. Somehow, it reassured him. He gulped, offering his hand to her.

“My lady?”

Daenerys looked at his hand, almost lost in what to do. Violet eyes turned away from him as she looked at the red woman, who had remained quiet through all of their talking, and something in the woman’s gaze must have comforted her of something. She looked deeply into his eyes, searching for something in his depths, and he dared not to turn away.

Her hand was warm in his.

 

•••

 

They walked quietly through the dark corridors of the castle, its warmth entering their bodies and keeping the cold away as they moved, hand in hand, towards their chambers. Jon could feel each step resonating inside of him, each intake of her breath hitting him like a whip. His whole body was synched to her movements.It didn’t take long for them to stop in front of the heavy red door that marked their rooms.

Jon looked at her, not saying anything, and she didn’t look back, staring at the door with a narrowed focus. He looked away, stepping forward and letting go of her hand as he opened the door, revealing a big chamber filled with sofas and an already lit hearth. The bed had a canopy and was huge, much larger than the one in his previous rooms. He could see various trunks around the room, separated in three groups that he assumed were his, hers and their gifts.

They entered, slowly observing the space around them with no rush. Jon closed the door behind him, bolting it. She turned around sharply, eyes wide and hugging herself.

“No!” He brought his arms up, eyes equally wide as he tried to calm her. He had no wish of imposing himself on her. If she wished so, they would not touch each other. “I’m just…I…” He frowned, unsure on how to go about it. He had no talent for words. “I can unlock it if it pleases you?”

She shook her head slowly, relaxing once more and chuckling.

“No, no…” She smiled at him, tired and suddenly so small. “It’s just…It’s hard…I don’t know how…” Her mouth hung open, words stuck in her throat as she looked at him with those violet orbs of hers. He nodded.

“Yes. I understand.” He watched as she smiled wide, looking down at her hands before walking languidly towards the two armchairs in front of the hearth, a small table between them filled with cheese, fruits and wine. Daenerys grabbed one of the furs that were thrown in the chair, wrapping it around her shoulders as she sat on it, taking her slippers off and pulling her legs up, hugging them close to her chest. She looked over her shoulder at him, tilting her head to the other armchair.

Blinking, Jon nodded hastily. He walked briskly to the chair and faced the hearth with cool eyes as he slowly sat in it, slowly relaxing. Jon let his body fall in the armchair, feeling absolute bliss at its warm and soft embrace. He let his head fall back, closing his eyes for a moment and let his body slide down, his legs sprawling open before him as he relaxed.

It was silent for a long while as he laid there, half sat and half laying in the armchair. He could picture her in his mind’s eye, behind his closed eyelids, as she looked at the fire, entranced and entrancing in her ethereal beauty.

“Me too, you know?” Jon spoke finally. His voice was low, small and timid. He felt he needed to tell her of this. “I’ve never…” He gulped, opening his eyes and staring at the dark ceiling above him. “Never…”

Silence met his confession, and Jon feared she thought him foolish when she giggled. He frowned, lifting his head enough to see her laughing quietly with her face hidden between her knees, her arms hugging them tightly to her chest.

“You laugh at me?” 

She looked up, the laughter slowly leaving her face and making her look pensively at him. She shook her head again, looking instead to the fire once more.

“No…” Her voice was soft, whispering even though they were completely alone. “It’s just you. Your…” Her full lips quirked up, eyebrows puckering expressively before she turned toward him with soft eyes. “Your kindness.” She sighed as if a great weight was lifted from her shoulders. “You are so kind, and gentle and _understanding…_ ” She huffed a laugh, turning away from him, before meeting his gaze again. “I cannot bear to think on how much I…” Her eyes darkened, shame overcoming her beautiful features. “How much I hated you.”

He tilted his head, letting his cheek rest on the soft cushion of the armchair behind him as he looked at her with curious eyes. Jon didn’t judge her for hating him; she obviously held no ill feelings for him now, and he did resent her in his childhood.

She laughed bitterly, hands rising and slowly taking a pin off of her hair, making one strand fall lightly over her shoulder as her legs fell off the chair.

“At eight, I hated you for what you meant to me.” She continued to slowly free her hair of its bounds, each strand falling around her like new snow falling from the skies. “I hated you for shaming me so, for bringing bastard blood to my royal blood.” It hurt to hear such words from her mouth, but Jon kept his silent vigil over her as she lost herself in her words, fingers never stopping from their heavy task of freeing her waterfall of winter-touched hair from its bounds. “I thought to myself that I should be queen, that I should be betrothed to the prince, who was surely better than a Northern brute.” She looked at him then, violet orbs dark with terrible memories. “Oh, my beautiful, kind husband,” He blushed at her words, but did not turn away from her piercing gaze. “I was wrong. So terribly wrong.”

Her hands fell to her lap, the last pin in hands as her hair curtained around her small form. Her waves were so long, they reached the small of her waist. Daenerys’ hair was magnificent, it shone bright and fell artistically around her face. She shook her head, making it move wildly around her head and then settle more naturally, not twisted by the tight hairdo she previously had. She gently put the pins on the table in between them.

Her head rolled on her shoulders until it was tilted towards him, in a position that mirrored his.

“Lord Stannis took me to King’s Landing once,” Her eyes turned clouded, memories coming forth to block her vision of the present. It didn’t take long for his mind to piece together what he knew of her and what she began to tell him. “I spent an entire year there, until after my ninth name-day, stuck in that hellhole,” She sneered, disgust clear in her features.

Jon knew of that, barely. His lord father had spoken to him about Daenerys travelling to King's Landing and staying in court for a whole year. Ramsay told Jon that she was humiliated by the royal family there, though he did not discover much more.

 “It stunk and it was so dirty,” She shook her head, horror falling swiftly over her face. “The people there, the common folk…” She huffed in disbelief like she still couldn’t believe what she had lived there. “They were filthy and hungry and so _desperate…_ ” Her eyes then turned to his, sadness bringing tears to her exotic irises. “And they did nothing. The King, Robert,” She leaned over the arm of the chair, bringing herself closer to him. “He only drinks and whores, fathering bastard after bastard in a way that we could fill our entire halls with them!” She pulled away, falling back into the chair and looking at the ceiling. She dampened her lips, pink tongue washing over her plump mouth.

Though Jon was distracted by both her words and her seducing actions, he couldn't help but agree with her depiction of the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Sam often rambled about how it was a shithole, though their maester would always disagree with the fat boy, but by Ramsay's reports and what the smallfolk of Queen's Town said of the city, Jon was inclined to believe in his steward more than maester Yandel.

“And the prince that I dreamed of?” She laughed bitterly, closing her eyes as tears fell down her cheeks. “He only humiliated me, along with his cruel mother.” She looked at him, face slacking into a blank mask. “He played with me, guiding me on, making me believe in my dreams, my naive, stupid dreams of royal marriage.” She closed her eyes. “And then he stripped me naked, tore my heart out in front of his court and laughed heartily at me.” Jon never strayed his gaze from her. A girl drowned in her past griefs shouldn’t be such a vision in his eyes, shouldn’t make his blood freeze and boil in the most confusing of sensations, but Daenerys did. “Next time I returned to Dragonstone, Lord Stannis told me how I came to be yours, not his; Joffrey’s.” She opened her eyes, smiling tragically and genuinely at him. “I’ve never been so relieved to be wrong. To not have a dream come true.” She held her hand out to him, and he grabbed it, holding tightly to her. “A nightmare, truly.” New tears fell from her eyes again as she smiled tremblingly at him.

Jon sighed deeply, his fingers closing over hers as something deep in his chest resonated with her history.

“So, you see, Jon Snow,” She laughed, gulping slightly before standing, letting her fur fall back on her chair. “You are the best, the very, very best,” He smiled up at her as she walked closer until she stood between his sprawled legs. “Best husband a girl like me could have.” She nodded, gazing bashfully at their joined hands. Jon leaned forward, sitting at the edge of his seat and lifting one hand to her cheek, tentatively laying his palm against it.

To his breathtaking surprise, she pushed her face against his palm, turning her lips into his caress and pressing a silent kiss on his callused palm. The foreign sensation brought a shiver to his whole body, goosebumps making the fine hair on his body stand. His whole form tensed, but in a different way that promised many pleasurable things.

Daenerys breathed trembly onto his hand, pressing one more kiss to it before stepping back, letting his hand go. She stood before him, glorious, the fire behind her forming a halo around her form. Her eyes, jewels given life, were focused on him completely as her hands went behind her, twisting someway and another until her gown went loose.

A shaky breath left his lips, his wide eyes were nearly black and he could feel a growing discomfort in his breeches. Violet eyes darkened, but her lips smiled gently as she let her gown fall to the ground.

She wore nothing beneath it.

Daenerys turned bashful at his long stare, her face and neck and _chest_ reddening as she looked down. She raised her arms, intent on covering her lovely breasts. Round, not very big and still childish, with pink peaks that were like buttons, begging him to pay them their due attention. Her curves were slight but her body was strong, her limbs sculptured for speed and flexibility. Her belly was flat, her hips wide and thighs thick. The small patch of silver hair between them fascinated him, calling for him with silent promises.

“You are bewitching…” He gasped, head shaking in disbelief at her enormous comeliness. He stood, grasping her face between his hands — so scarlet, so shy, so gorgeous — and bringing his forehead to meet hers. Jon closed his eyes, trying to ignore the desire growing in him and focusing on _her_.

“Do you want this, Daenerys?” It was the first time he called her so.

He felt as her nose nuzzled his, a soft touch that brought a modest smile to his lips. He nuzzled her back.

“Yes.” He kissed her.

His lips touched her warm and wet ones, still salty from her previous tears. He moved them slightly, lost, but knowing that he searched to bring her pleasure. She bit him lightly, pulling away with his lower lip stuck between her teeth. He opened his eyes, looking into her lovely face and smiling. She let his lip go, smiling back at him, her hands smoothing the fabric covering his shoulders.

Slowly, so damn slowly, she helped him take his clothes off.

It was embarrassing, and he yelped lowly when she first touched his breeches, making her laugh and he shut her up with another kiss. That only made her laugh louder, and he kissed her smiling lips trying to contain his own laughter as her hands clumsily unlaced his breeches.

Daenerys managed to undo the laces, but when she went to the task of taking his pants off, they finally noticed that they had to take his boots before taking off the damn pants. Jon cursed, damming his far too many layers of clothes as she giggled insanely, kneeling on the ground and trying to avert bumping her head with his hard erection as she went about taking off the fucking boots. Which was as humiliating as it sounded.

All the while she giggled, taking one boot and pulling it forcefully off his leg while he tried to balance himself standing on only one. She pulled and he fell back to the armchair, she kept laughing, almost sobbing with hilarity, and he kissed her again, more forcefully but not containing his own laugher this time.

“It’s not funny.” He told her, trying to show some semblance of seriousness.

“It is!” She didn’t contain herself, laughing mirthfully with eyes clear with giddy happiness.

Small hands went to his other boot, taking it off more gently as she giggled occasionally, shaking her head in amusement. Jon watched her with soft eyes. 

The boot went off and she brought her hands to his loose breeches, pulling them down his strong legs, her face slowly taking a more curious and lustful gaze as she watched his body. This time, it was Jon who blushed. When she finally took off the offending piece of cloth, she tossed it aside, rising on her knees so she could look him better.

Violet orbs drank him shamelessly, passing through the ridges of his defined muscles, his abdomen and resting on the bulging member close to her face. She went bright red on the face, the same as him, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. He, too, didn’t quite know how to proceed. So he only breathed in slightly, his eyes roamed over her body as he brought his arms around her waist to hug her close to his chest, bringing her up from her kneeled position so she could curl in his chest, straddling his hips.

They both gasped when their bodies finally connected, her breasts firmly pressed to his chest, her legs pressing into his and her folds touching lightly to his hard member.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” He breathed in her hair, lips moving against her silky hair. 

“What?” One of her hands was gripping his hair at his nape, another was drawing circles on his neck. Daenerys moved her head up, lips grazing against his.

“We met yesterday, but here we are, married, in a room of our own, naked and ready to…” Jon cleared his throat, stopping himself from finishing a sentence so dirty in the presence of a lady.

“Fuck?”

He laughed, letting his head fall back and bring an arm to throw on top of his eyes.

“What?” She asked, laughing against his neck.

Jon grabbed the back of her head, pulling her to him and kissing her, deeply.

His arms snaked around her, firmly securing this little woman close to him as he opened his mouth on hers, and she opened hers in welcome. Jon stood from the armchair, holding Daenerys tight to his chest as her legs circled his hips, holding tight to him and pressing her folds to his skin. He moaned, as did her, at the feeling of skin sliding on the skin. His legs took them to their large bed, his knees bumping on the bed as he lowered her to the mattress.

Jon had to stop himself and take a moment to stare at her enticing form laid out in front of him. Her mouth was open, breathing harshly through red and wet lips. Her hands were laid out on both sides of her head, arms sprayed in a way that framed her lustful face, her tits bounced with her rapid breathing. Her legs were bent on her knees with her feet planted firmly on the bed, exposing her to him. Daenerys’ eyes shone with lust and fear, fear of the unknown that was ahead of them. He wished to soothe her.

He could, Jon thought, eye falling to her glistening folds.

Kneeling on the ground, he ignored her questioning call of his name and laid his mouth against her, fingers parting her nether lips as he devoured her. She gasped, grabbing his hair as she bucked against his lips with abandon. His thumb searched for her pearl, not exactly knowing what he searched for but knowing its purpose from various talks with both Ramsay and Theon.

He found it, stiff and hidden, but it brought screams out of her sweet mouth and made her drip into his mouth. She screamed more and more, legs kicking and pressing on his head, gripping him so strongly it hurt. On and on she went, him never ceasing in his banquet and she desperate for something he had not yet given her. Jon swore he would give her, whatever it was.

And then she went rigid, her body arching into his mouth and out of the bed, her back bowed and she _screamed_. Orgasm, Jon thought idly as she spent into his mouth. He blinked, licking his lips and crawling his way up her body until he was hovering over her, bracing himself with two arms laid around her head. Her hair was splayed over the silk of the bed, stuck to her face and one long strand stuck to her open mouth. He used one hand to remove it, kissing it before putting it behind her ear as he caressed her face.

She kissed him tenderly, nudging his hips with a knee. He kissed her cheek, breathing in the scent of her. They parted for a few moments, exchanging kisses as they arranged themselves on top of their bed. She laid her head on a pillow, and he laid on top of her, his hips nudging her legs apart as he looked into her eyes.

Gulping, he blew a strand of his own black hair out his eyes, and her hands were soon on his face, moving the wild curls away as he braced himself on one arm and the other he used to guide himself inside her.

She gasped, and he locked his muscles, his whole body listening and completely in tune with her every reaction. Daenerys brought her forehead close to his, violet eyes looking deeply into his as he entered her completely. Jon found no barrier or any of the likes he had heard in perverted talks, but he knew horseback could break a maiden’s barrier. Maester Luwin had told him so that very evening.

Nonetheless, nothing more than that passed through Jon’s mind as his lover — his _wife_ — clutched at him so intimately. He moved against her, bodies so close to each other he did not know where he ended and she began. They kissed, and he could feel the salty taste of tears on her lips.

“Dany…”

She chuckled, a breathless smile on her lips and tears shining in her violet orbs. She kissed him again, sure and passionately as they rocked against each other.

"Oh, Jon..."

She breathed his name in his mouth, sweetly and wantonly.

“Dany…Ah, Dany!”

Her Valyrian name was massacred in his tongue, lost in pleasure as he was. But she did not seem to mind, so he decided to keep calling her so.

“Jon…”

He spent on her, his seed spilling into her womb as she milked him greedily. Their eyes met in wonder, finding in each other the same sentiment of immeasurable pleasure for something they had been so scared of. The pleasure they had found in each other’s arms was un-matching, Jon thought as he leaned down to kiss her once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review. I need your opinion on that smut. I really don't know how I feel about it. I like it, but...I want to know if you guys do.
> 
> Watched closely to my tenses when writing this one here.
> 
> Now, let's talk business.
> 
> Ramsay Bolton's, or Snow, part in this story is heavily inspired by the character Fabien Marchal from the series Versailles. Ramsay has not been suddenly turned into a good guy, his character was kept somewhat the way he was. After thorough research, I came to the conclusion that he could develop a kind of obsessive loyalty to someone. He had it for his mother in canon verse. Jon obtained this loyalty after showing that he could wield power in a way that Ramsay could recognize. Also, as he was quite young when he met Jon, I think it's easier to develop and solidify such a way of thinking when someone is as young as he was when they met. Especially since Jon does see his worth for what he can do and his own virtues, not only his bastard blood. Beyond that, Ramsay has found a role that he finds comfort in, being his lord's 'master interrogator', and it stops him from wanting to take the leading role for himself. Jon knowledges his eccentric and honestly unstable mind, but he doesn't stop or ask him to hide who he is, accepting Ramsay even if it frustrates or disgusts him sometimes. We will see more of Ramsay (much more) and he is going to be one of the main characters in Queenscrown. What are your thoughts on him? Also, this Ramsay is based more on the show version than the book one. The book!Ramsay is a lot crazier, I think. 
> 
> The mountain clans mentioned by Jon will be further explained, but for now, I want you guys to know that they are a little bit on the OC side of things. Yes, there are northern mountain clans in canon-verse, but they reside along the shores of the bay of ice, west of the mountains surrounding Queenscrown. And there are a lot of mountains in between these two areas. So I thought of these clans, the ones that Jon found, more as nomads that live in small groups. As the North is so vast, I didn't think that the entire area was really explored, so my take is that there are some riches there for our Targaryens to explore. More on that will be explained later in the story itself. Or just ask me if ya wanna! Preferably on a review, so others can read it also!
> 
> Ok then, let's talk about Dany's speeches and Jon's fumbling words. I took to heart Jon's 'I'm not a bloody poet!' phrase. Here we see Dany being all badass and making inspiring speeches while Jon just speaks what he thinks necessary while brooding a lot over a number of things. It's a difference between the two characters that I really tried to show in this chapter. Now, it doesn't mean they will inspire armies yet, Jon is still kind haunted by puberty and Dany just haven't dealt with a lot of people, and needs to learn to measure her own words. She could have ended in really bad waters because of that speech if Robert had been there. And she still can if they don't rectify the situation!
> 
> I think that's all I have to say, for now, any further doubts or ideas or critics you guys wanna say, please comment!
> 
> ~Mari


	3. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn discovers some things, gets hints of others and is altogether shaken, confused and feeling utterly betrayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter I post until I get my shit together with high school, university and a whole lot of things. Don't know if I'll post this year still, but by the end of December or the beginning of January, I should be posting the next chapter.

 “You cannot let it end like this, Ned!”

Catelyn stared at her husband as he hunched over his table, and she felt helpless.

Since the moment Ned came back to her in Riverrun with Jon Snow in his arms while she held their true born son in hers, Catelyn felt doom fall over their future. She thought herself ridiculous, reasoning to herself that no bastard son could ever bring the fall of her family and that even though Ned had dishonoured her in such a horrid way, she shouldn’t worry for she would make sure the bastard never turned out to be a threat to her children.

The bastardly Pact of Ice and Fire that her lord husband arranged to his baseborn son cemented Catelyn’s first thoughts of ruin for their family. How could such a match bring any kind of good? The last time a dragon and a wolf were involved — it hurt to think of Jon Snow as a wolf, it hurt more yet that he looked more the part than her children — Westeros almost burned to the ground.

It was ill-fated, she told him when she came to know of the planned union. The look he gave her, she still remembered it vividly even after so many years, was as if she had struck him with her own hand. He had remained silent for days, not speaking with her until they reached Winterfell, and then he spent an entire day and an entire night in vigil before his weirwood tree.

Through the years, as she watched him ready the bastard’s household with an eagerness she rarely saw in him, Catelyn only grew bitter and bitter. She had hoped  Ned would send the boy away, foster him somewhere else, but her lord husband denied her wishes, saying Jon Snow would grow in the North and would learn to rule a castle of the North.

Now, after witnessing the Dragon girl’s speech of _liberty_ and _worthiness,_ having seen the growing affection and support they each were willing to give to the other, Catelyn saw great things would come out of their union, for the better or worse of their world. And she couldn’t help but resent her husband to give them such a chance. A chance of funding an empire of their own in their frozen lands.

Idly, she thought Sansa would enjoy the songs that would come out of this night. Arya, too, would listen with wide grey eyes full of wonder as bards sang of the doomed princess and her bastard consort rallying the broken and common folks of the realm under their rule while preaching that no one was worthless. Bastard Prince and Snow Princess, she heard that they were called by the people roaming their lands. Catelyn shuddered, thinking of how many titles they would be called by in the future.

“Her words could lead us into war if the King sees it as treason!” She fumed at her husband, wanting him to look up from the wood of his desk and face her fully. “And you let them get out of this room so easily?” She shook her head, turning away from him to face Lord Stannis. Catelyn wished the Lord of Dragonstone and his advisers had left them alone, but they remained where Jon and Daenerys left with that beast of a boy, Ramsay, while Maester Luwin had gone to deal with the retiring guests. “And what is this about the Northmen clans and mines? I had thought our mountain clans resided by the Bay of Ice, as the mountains aren’t the best place to live.”

“Yes, Lord Stark,” The tasteless man, Lord Stannis, replied with a dry voice. “You have not informed me of this happy development.” He seemed sarcastic, Catelyn thought. But his eyes had a shrewd light to them, satisfaction evident on the thin set of his mouth. Of course, he would appreciate such news, Catelyn knew of how attached he was to his ward and how much he had invested in the girl’s future even before the marriage.

It was him who had financed much of the girl’s castle’s decorations and construction, having taken the girl with him on many of his travels around Westeros and beyond to meet her investors, subtly taking notes of what she enjoyed or what she wanted in her own future home. Ned had told her the stern man was besotted with the Targaryen girl and wished to ensure both her safety and comfort. If Catelyn hadn’t read his letters alongside Ned, begrudgingly but dutifully aiding her husband in his task — personal mission — by listening to his rambles while they readied themselves for a night's sleep, though she would never truly involve herself with the bastard's castle or plans other than simply listening and sometimes counseling her husband, she would have never believed that the Lord Baratheon of Dragonstone was capable of such sweet things.

Ned sighed heavily before lifting his eyes towards them. His eyes were dark and grave, with deep dark circle beneath them. She hadn’t slept with him for a few nights and felt anguished by her beloved husband’s obvious distress. Catelyn had not thought of how he would react to such a thing, to the heavy burden that his…son and good-daughter’s words would lay on his shoulders.

_But why do you fret so, my love?_ She thought, bewildered at her husband’s distress. The entire Targaryen marriage was something Ned had been preparing for years, he’d arranged everything so attentively and with such a fierce determination she had thought he would be elated with the event that he had so carefully arranged.

They were interrupted by an abrupt knock on the solar’s door. The intruder did not wait for her husband’s calling and opened the door without wavering, Catelyn was ready to unleash her indignity and call for the guards to take the crazy man who dared to intrude in the lord’s solar but stopped herself when her good-brother Benjen’s black-clad form stumbled through the door with a troubled face.

Benjen Stark, the chosen dignitary between Queenscrown and the Night’s Watch, had preferred to stay in the background of his bastard nephew’s marriage. The crow had arrived on the morn of the wedding day, preferring to not approach the groom in his busy day. Catelyn had been by the man’s side for most of the day, along with her husband and Lord Stannis, while they settled the entourage that would take the new Lord and Lady of the Gift to their holdfast in a few weeks' time. They had planned to fully discuss the matter after the wedding festivities along with the now Lord Jon and Lady Daenerys, after letting the pair deal with their guests and arranging agreements between their many investors.

Of course, Catelyn thought with an internal chuckle, her Ned had probably let the brother of the Night’s Watch in the dark as he did them. The riches the boy had allegedly found in his domains would directly affect the Night’s Watch. With dawning understanding, Catelyn realized that such wealth could — should, she thought viciously — be claimed by the Watch, as they were situated in the Gift, a marked land that belonged to the Watch by a much more powerful claim then the agreement between Ned’s bastard and the Lord Commander.

“Silver, Ned?!” The black brother hissed, closing the heavy door behind him as he strode forward with heavy steps. “Precious stones, metals, silver and maybe even gold?!” His hands fell heavily on the desk as he leaned over, mirroring the position of his older brother.His voice was as grave as his brother often was. “Why were I neither the Lord Commander informed of this development?” 

“Benjen…” She spoke admonishingly, defensive of her husband and trying to remind the younger Stark brother of whom he spoke with. He looked at her over his shoulder and she saw his eyes, wilder than her husband’s but still as much gentle. The man sighed, letting his head fall before he stepped back, finally seeming to take notice of the people around them.

“I apologize.” The man bowed slightly to the two lords, meeting his brother’s stare with a calmer look of his own. “I was not thinking correctly.”

“And I forgive you, Ben.” Her lord husband sighed heavily, finally pulling his chair and sitting heavily in it as he stared at them all. “You were right about coming here and questioning me about this.” Lord Stark corrected his posture and looked wearily at his brother. “For the past year Jon…No.” Ned took a deep breath and then continued, his words falling deeply over Catelyn’s shoulders. “Lord Jon Targaryen has been negotiating with smaller mountain clans — hermits, to be honest with you all.” She clenched her jaw, dread growing in her chest. “He has documented each negotiation that succeeded so far, and has acquired their knowledge in exchange for protection, food, shelter and whatever they needed for survival.” Her husband opened one of the lower drawers in his desk, taking a few papers off it and putting them on the table. He arranged the papers on top of it so that they could all see.

Catelyn stepped forward with Lord Stannis and the Watch’s Ranger by her sides. When her blue eyes rested on the papers, finally seeing and then processing the words and high numbers displayed on them, each referring to a different mountain or area, something in her broke at the simply gigantic amount of wealth available to the boy up into the frozen mountains.

“These…” Lord Stannis was, for once, showing some kind of emotion. Shock, she was sure. Catelyn felt it as acutely as all of them did. “These are the Westerlands born again…” The paper he had in hands documented a group closer to Queenscrown, at its Southwest border, nearer to the growing Queen’s Crown. The clan, Whitewing, it was written, knew of at least ten mines and sites of both silver and _diamonds_. “How can this be?” Catelyn agreed wholeheartedly.

“The North is too vast and far too much cold for anyone to go exploring it. The ancient mountains up there are too dangerous to populate.” Ned looked at her, and she wanted him to see that it would not end well if they let the boy have such riches in his young, easily manipulated and corrupted. hands. The new Targaryen would not know what to do with it all and would only call for unwanted attention to the North. “But smaller groups of ten or fifteen can live well enough on those lands. Jon thought they could live better with him.” Catelyn could see the pride in his eyes and in the set of Ned’s mouth as he looked at the documents. “And they agreed.”

New gold in Westeros could only call the attention of the worst kind.

_We’ll have Lannister swarming our home from all corners…_

“They agreed?” She huffed out, disbelief clear in her voice. “And is it true? How can they be trusted?” Catelyn shook her head. “Mountain clans are petty and often unreliable.”

“Cat!” Ned called her name with exasperation and reproach.

“Oh, please, Ned.” She smirked. “Do not deny it.”

“Lady Catelyn is right, Ned.” Benjen sighed, shaking his head. “These people are often unreliable, you know how much trouble they are to the Mormonts. What makes you think that they will follow Jon?

Ned looked at them all before he finally rested his gaze upon Stannis.

“What convinced the Crownlands to fall behind you? What made the Targaryen loyalists follow you?” Catelyn had to hold herself from rolling her eyes at her husband’s question.

Stannis raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by Ned’s inquiring.

“Daenerys, of course.” Catelyn could swear something resembling a smirk graced the man’s lips for a short moment before his face went back to its placid stage. “She’s the only reason they still listen to me.”

Catelyn blinked, frowning at the man. No Lord ever displayed such inner flaws from their governments for others to see, especially in situations like these. The man was practically saying that the Houses sworn to him were truly sworn to his ward. Catelyn wondered where his wife was and what she would think of such irrational behaviour.

“Well,” Ned sighed turning toward the various contracts displayed in front of them. “Those small hermits have no significant history to date with us which would make them unwilling to swear fealty to a lord that could ease their living situation. They live by what they find, but it’s not an easy life.” He looked at them, gaze wondering back towards Catelyn. “Jon offered them a better life inside his walls.”

“Lord Stark,” They all turned to Stannis, who was staring at Ned with a keen gaze. “I’ve seen in the plans you’ve sent me how large the area those outer walls cover, how much ground it surrounds. Bigger even than King’s Landing, I reckon.” The Baratheon took a step forward, grabbing a few of the papers. “How many clans and how many people can we hope to live in that place, truly?”

“The greenhouses…”

“Oh, I know about it.” The man threw the papers back on the desk, looking at her husband with cold eyes. “We’ve discussed it already. There was no other way other than doing them on the lands, thus the outer walls were made, and are still in construction, in order to offer protection for the castle's greenhouses, which are legendary in size, let us agree on that.” He crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I want to know how many people there are in my ward’s lands.”

Ned’s jaw twitched.

“About two hundred, not counting with the current workers.” Stannis nodded, calmly, while Catelyn looked at her husband with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. "On the construction of the wall and maintenance of the castle, we have at least one thousand men." She gasped.

“One thousand…” Catelyn glared at her husband. She had not known how enormous the effort to give the boy a castle, a home worthy of the royal family themselves, had been. It was jarring how Ned tried so much to give the boy such ostentatious gifts.

“Those mountains are vast, and with them settling in a place like that, with vast crops sponsored by the House Florent from the Reach…” Benjen sounded almost proud of what the bastard had done. “Jon changed a lot of lives for the better, but I had not known about the mines.”

“Your Lord Commander did know about it, Ben.” Benjen sighed in apparent relief, nodding in thanks towards his brother.

Catelyn looked at the three men and felt helpless. Lord Stannis would only see the wealthiness for his beloved ward, her husband would never see the wrong in his bastards actions. Maybe she could reason with Benjen, maybe try and make him see how wrong, how dangerous the whole situation was.

“But wouldn’t those riches belong to the Watch?” She had their attention. “They all reside in the Gift.”

“And Jon Targaryen is Lord of it.” The words came with a foreign accent, coming from a sultry voice that had not spoken once since they entered the solar. The Red Woman never looked away from the window as she spoke. “And all that is in the Gift shall be his as long as he responds and pays his taxes to the Watch.”

“Lady Melisandre speaks truthfully, Lady Stark.” The man who accompanied the Lord Baratheon, the landed knight, Ser Davos spoke heavily, leaning over the table, eyes glued to the various papers scattered over the desk. “Soon, other lords will go North and build their own castles, while Lord Targaryen” And, oh, how horrible it was to hear the bastard had received such a title. Catelyn wanted to throw something, break something in frustration. “Will be their overlord, still holding power over the Gift itself and answering to the Lord Commander only.”

For a moment, that was that. They all stood in silent contemplation of the young boy’s future. Catelyn found herself frightened at the amount of power the boy could  — would, she thought, defeated — hold if he played the game correctly. Would that girl, Daenerys, help him? Would she be a valuable partner? Would she be a dutiful wife like her Lady Mother? A Visenya, fierce and strong? Alysanne, intelligent and beautiful, as much a ruler as her husband? Mayhap a free-spirited Rhaenys?

Or, Catelyn thought, she could be something all of her own. The thought was even more frightening, as the unknown often was.

“And the Crown?” As the words left her mouth, Catelyn felt herself freeze into some sort of a trance. “What does the Crown think of this?” Her blue eyes rose from them the papers so she could observe Ned’s face. Regret and fear dominated his semblance, grey orbs staring furiously at the table. “You haven’t told the King about this.” Her hand rose, fingers massaging her brow in an unladylike gesture. “Ned, please, tell me you have spoken with King Robert of this.” She turned her gaze toward the stony Baratheon by her side.

The brother of the king, a man who was known for his endless duty to the Crown, stood there, previously unknowing of the game-changing explorations the bastard had been doing in what were supposed to be useless lands. Now, the hated House Targaryen had a castle, people and capital, a combination which could only mean insult to the overly proud king that sat upon the throne. Their family's heads counted on how the king’s brother and master of ships would react to such discoveries.

Catelyn held her breath in, stared at the man’s blank face with trepidation as he tilted his head to the side, like some sort of morbid depiction of a curious little bird.

“Robert couldn’t care less about what they do and what they have.” Blinking, stupidly as Arya would say, Catelyn stared at the man, thinking that maybe she had heard wrong. “Not until he discovers they, Daenerys and the boy, hold absolutely no ties to the Seven Kingdoms, answering only to you, as Warden of the North, and to the Night’s Watch. He could raise his banners then if he did not have his Small Council to stop him from doing such an insipid thing.” He uncrossed his arms, clasping them behind them. “Daenerys was unthinking in her actions today, but it could turn fruitful as your son suggested.” As if called, the Lady Melisandre and Ser Davos walked toward him, flanking his sides. “Well,” The man locked eyes with the Ranger and the Lord, something dark and promising in his striking blue eyes. “If the King sees it in a bad light, that’s too bad for him.” With that utterly daring sentence, the man turned around and left the room.

 

•••

 

After such a heavy talk, — the king’s brother had just talked of treason, hadn’t he? Oh, gods, Catelyn was trembling all over. She did not want that for her children, and would do everything to make sure they were secure — Catelyn couldn’t bear to hear more of her husband's words and mishaps.

How could Ned be so naive? So terribly short-sided? The man had been so focused on securing his bastard’s hold of the Gift he had not seen how the boy’s growing power could affect their own family.

“Cat…” She heard him calling her, begging her to look away from the mountain of papers displayed upon his desk. Catelyn knew he wanted her support, her strength as his wife, his partner, especially now, with his friend’s brother implied threat to the king, who was his brother. Wasn't Stannis extremely fixated with justice and loyalty? What made a man like him imply such a thing? What made him so confident Ned wouldn't tell of this to the king?

She couldn’t find in herself to do it. She didn’t want it.

Ned was bringing war close to their door. The seeds of a conflict he had planted when he saved the girl were growing like weeds, parasites overtaking their heavenly peace.

The dangerous game Ned was playing with such determination, — he came back North after Robert's Rebellion trying to escape the viciousness of the South, and now he was laying the foundations for his so hated Southern courtesies to take hold of their calm home? — for the sake of a bastard and his doomed bride, were going to destroy their family.

How could she uphold the Duty and Honor her family had taken as their words? She couldn’t; not when Ned played with their lives in such a careless way.

“Catelyn…I,” She heard him move around the desk, reaching for her with one of his large, calloused hands she so loved.

“If I may, my lord,” As the lady she was, her voice kept steady, cool as the waters of her Father’s lands, even if she wanted nothing more than to rage and cry at him. Catelyn prided herself of her duty as a lord's wife, she would keep it even when her wishes conflicted with those of her lord husband's own. She needed to get out of the solar, get a good night’s sleep, then, perhaps, she would seek her husband out so they could truly find the root of the problem. Maybe then she would be willing to aid him. “I would like to return to my chambers, to rest.” Blue eyes, masked with all the pleasantries the South was so famous — infamous — for, stared at her husband unafraid and unbothered with the clear disappointment in his features. “I have found that the festivities have finally caught up with me.”

“Of course, my lady.” Ned nodded sadly, turning towards Benjen, who she refused to look at in this moment of weakness of both her and her husband.

Catelyn did not stay to hear anything more, curtsying quickly and sharply walking out of the solar. She descended the steps with haste, wanting to be away from the damned tower and her husband and the simple memory of what she had just learned.

Too much, far too much had happened, and much more could come to pass in the next days. If they were careless, everything could end up uglily. The Lady Stark had to be careful and think scrupulously on the next steps of her husband’s.

For years, she had let him be; she had never tried to be involved with the bastard’s castle or life. She had not participated, she evaded anything that was minimally related to the boy’s existence.

Catelyn could clearly see now that her wounded pride had been her downfall. Her husband had a made a mess of the situation. Ned had given the boy far too much; had given the _Targaryen_ far too much. And that was the root of the problem wasn’t it? House Targaryen was the last House the king would ever want to see with power and wealth in hands.

The king couldn’t call for their riches because the Gift was of the Night’s Watch, which did not answer to the King. They were amassing numbers in the small folk and the population of leftovers; bastards, sellswords and, now, slaves! The sheer number of people who would head North only because of the speech the Targaryen girl gave would be mountainous. 

Maybe they could control it? Make the people quiet with a few gold coins would surely work, it certainly did for the Lannister.

No, she thought, defeated, stopping on the corridor leading to the Family Wing so she could rest. Catelyn let herself fall against the wall, leaning heavily on it and letting her head fall back as she took big breaths, willing herself to calm down.

They could not silence so many people, and it would only cause more harm. A few coins wouldn’t tempt rich magisters or lords of other castles or kingdoms. There were representatives of the Reach, the Riverlands, Westerlands…Westeros in its entirety was present in the wedding, though not the Lords Paramount themselves, Catelyn knew that every influent House in Westeros had sent their emissary. Ravens must have already flown carrying the shocking _invitation_ of the Targaryen lady. 

Targaryen loyalist wouldn’t take long to travel North, running for a chance to band with the growing Lord and Lady of Queenscrown. They already had the Royal Navy in its entirety, she thought, breathless for a moment as the implication of Stannis words finally sank in. House Tyrell could stand for their beloved Targaryen, perhaps, but those were greedy people and they wanted the throne and the throne did not belong to the Dragons anymore.

But if there ever rose an opportunity to put one of their future progeny on the throne while also aiding the ancient House of Fire and Blood…

No, she shook her head, desperate for those hideous thoughts to leave her mind. She needed a bath and a long night’s sleep.

And her husband.

A mirthless chuckle left her lips, then, as she took notice of how even when cross with her husband she still longed for his loving embrace and comforting warmth. 

Tired to the bone, she fixed herself, taking a deep breath before walking forward, elegantly and unhurried with her hands clasped at her waist. Catelyn walked for long minutes, passing guards and honoured guests, stopping to greet all of them, always courteous. She asked of the party, of the wedding, heard their opinions, — _oh, what a ungracious girl, as fiery as her House, how daring of her don’t you think?_ — their critics, — _that up-start Targaryen will get what she deserves for such horrible behaviour!_ — their questions, — _what kind of riches the young Lord spoke of, my lady?_ — and after a dozen or more so of guests — minor houses and merchants, thankfully — Catelyn felt a hundred times more tired than she was before stepping out of her husband’s solar.

Deciding to cut the way to the Family Wing, she entered one of the smaller paths, used only by those who lived, or visited constantly, the castle, as any other would lose themselves in their halls. Entering the dark hallway, she hurried to her rooms, confident in her safety in her own castle but desperate for the warmth and privacy of her rooms.

When finally entering the last hallway that would take her to the main path leading directly to the Family Wing, she stopped, listening attentively to the hushed words coming on ahead.

Catelyn walked silently, putting her head carefully on the edge of the wall, at the end of the corridor.

There, leaning against the wall, was Sansa, her beautiful daughter. Standing in front of her, looking at her with eerily clear eyes, was that awful Bolton bastard.

Fear, unbounded and chilling, overcame her very being. Catelyn froze for half a second, watching as her daughter looked at him beneath her dark lashes, how she bit her lips and then turned her beautiful eyes away from him, staring anywhere but at the bastard’s face. The bastard took a step forward, bending his head so he could enter her line of vision once more, a cruel twist in his lips as his mouth moved, most likely spilling deceiving words, to seduce her dear daughter.

“Get away from my daughter, you filthy bastard.”

The girl yelped, face turning as red as their hair while the young man only straightened his spine, turning his head upwards and sighing exasperatedly, as if the Lady of the House had not just ordered something of him.

“Mother!” Sansa stepped forward, one hand rising as if to stop her. Catelyn took no further notice, pulling her daughter by her extended arm and embracing her tiny body close to her as she glared accusingly at the damned bastard. “Mother, please!”

“I will have your head for this, Snow.” She hissed out, already preparing to scream for the guards when Sansa’s hand shot up and covered her mouth. Catelyn turned wide eyes to her daughter’s sweet face looking up at her with horrified blue eyes. The Bolton boy started guffawing loudly, giant bouts of laughter echoing in the dark halls.

“Mother, please! Don’t embarrass us so!” Sansa took her hand from Catelyn’s mouth, slowly and hesitatingly as she stepped out of her embrace. “I was waiting here for Robb to escort me back to my rooms, but he had to help Theon, who was falling onto himself so drunk he was.” Catelyn clenched her jaw, lifting her chin as she looked down on the cruel bastard. “Ser Ramsay was passing by, and stopped to greet me, nothing more, I swear.”

“He is no Ser, Sansa,” Catelyn spoke cooly, not moving her gaze away from the little devil smiling mockingly at them. He clapped, startling Sansa, as he approached them, stopping awfully close.

“Your mother is right, my lady.” He chuckled, tilting his head at Sansa, a falsely sweet smile on his lips that made the girl fidget on her feet. “I am no knight, no anything,” He looked at Catelyn then, eyes as empty as a corpse. “Yet.”

“Go to your rooms, Sansa.” The words were sharp and made the girl wince, clenching her eyes shut and hunching her shoulders inwards. Catelyn wished for nothing more other than to soothe her little child, but something in her, the mother in her, screamed she should send her daughter away from the monster standing in front of them. “Now.”

“Yes, mother.” The Stark girl curtsied, heading toward the Family Wing with haste without looking back once.

They stood in silence, waiting for the girl to disappear into the castle, far from them.

Blue eyes stared at the monster with loath. Nothing and no one was more disgusting to her than the young man standing innocently in front of her, pointing wide milky orbs at her as if he was nothing but a mere guileless child, not a boy who had been sent to her house because his lord father had no more use for his human hunting little beast.

The rumours were unclear but had arrived alongside the boy when his father, Lord Roose Bolton, had sent him with an entourage two years back to support Jon Snow's growing hold. Catelyn did not know if they were true or why the hell the boy had stopped, but she had a guess that it had something to do with her husband’s bastard. And, for that, she was grateful of the new Targaryen lord; he had a short leash on his little monster.

“Go back to your bastardly master, Snow, and stay away from this Wing, it is not for the likes of you.” Her words were commanding, cold and harsh as the bastard deserved them to be.

“It that was true,” He kept on smiling, that horrible smile that just showed how inhuman the boy was inside. “My Lord Snow would not be allowed inside but, “ He turned around, arm extended fully and pointing a finger at the other end of the hallway. “He’s right there, isn’t he?” His childish voice and challenging words were something she accustomed with, and it was chilling how unafraid he was. The boy had absolutely no regards to what could happen to him for talking in such a way to someone above him. Catelyn had lost count on how many times she had ordered punishments onto the boy, physically or mentally, he seemed to like it anyway. "Besides, he's in there, so should I go into the Stark's intimate abode, anyway?"

“You know very well you are not one bit near what he is.” She sneered, not liking it but accepting as the truth. And if it had to be Jon instead of the disgustingly sadistic Ramsay Snow, so it would be. “What are you even doing here?” She shook her head. “The guards shouldn’t have let you enter here.” The boy smiled widely.

“I’m friends with a lotta people.”

“You have no friends.”

“I have Lord Jon.” His smile didn’t leave his lips, but Catelyn had to hide a shudder at the sudden deadly glint in his eyes. The way his jaw tightened, the right corner of his lips twitched up and how his hands rose in tight fists before falling heavily at his side showed how unstable the boy was, it showed how much violence and viciousness he kept locked inside, all held in by a mere order of Jon Snow. Ramsay laughed breathlessly, death in his eyes and invisible blood dripping from his hands.

“Yes, you do.” Catelyn had often found easier to talk with the boy as if indulging a child when he got like that, restless and fidgety with bloodlust.

The boy licked his lips, smiling an open-mouthed smile. His ticked his tongue before nodding towards her, snapping his fingers and jumping slightly, eyes glinting as if something had just clicked into his mind.

“Ah, ah!” He chuckled. “Lady Catelyn,” He clasped his hands under his chin, shaking his head with closed eyes. “I almost forgot, I have a little something to tell you.” He stepped closer to her and she took a step back, inhaling sharply as her pulse increased. “Don’t worry, my lady,” He frowned, almost looking insulted. She did not believe it for a second. “I would never hurt a lady of your station in her own castle!” What about outside of it, she couldn't help but ask herself. “But enough of that, I just wanted to say that, well, how can I say this,” One of his fingers tapped his lips, one eyebrow lifted inquisitively.

She was tired of his games.

“Speak at once, bastard.”

“Now, that’s rude, my lady.” She narrowed her eyes.

“I’ll have you whipped.”

“Again, so soon?” Her teeth would shatter with the pressure she was putting them under if he didn’t end this terrible encounter at once.

“Speak now, or I won’t stand your presence for much longer, Snow.”

Ramsay sighed, sounding almost disappointed.

“Very well.” His face changed sharply, features twisting into a wholly different expression in that perturbing way only a madman could do. “I just wanted you to know that your sister, the Lady Arryn, and her very, very, close friend Lord Petyr Baelish send their regards.” Catelyn frowned, confused why he of all people would approach her with news of her sister and her childhood companion.

“You want a punishment, boy, for meddling into my family’s business? What does Lord Baelish even have to do with the likes of you?”

For once, the boy looked at her seriously, with no smiles and seemingly no façades.

“Don’t play dumb, my lady, you know very well of my reputation. If I tell you something, it is because I need you to know something.” Ramsay Snow was the man of the gossip, the ladies in the kittens often said. So charming, if not for those horrible rumours of his past dark deeds. “The Lady Arryn is your sister and wife to the Hand of the King. If she does something unsightly, it reflects on you, as her sister, and if it reflects on you, it reflects on your lord husband which then reflects on my own lord, and well,” He shrugged his shoulders as if what he was implying wasn’t absolutely paranoid and crazy. “I will never let something reflect badly on my lord.”

“You are absolutely mad.” She walked around him, having had enough of his delusions.

“Tell me something I don’t know, my lady!” Catelyn stopped, sneering and wanting to order him away from her and her family. “But you should heed my words when I say that, well,” He chuckled. “Your lady sister isn’t that dissimilar from my crazy kind, only not as vicious. Especially with that ambitious Lord Baelish at her side in King’s Landing.” Her hands were fists by her sides, and she willed herself to not turn toward him. “You, Tully sisters, never really forget your first love, don’t you agree, my lady?”

Gasping, she turned, ready to lash out at him, in anger, in confusion, in outrage, but Ramsay Snow was already gone.

 

•••

She hurried down the hall, passing by the red door marking the first chambers of the Family's Wing — she ignored the faint noises coming from it, trying to forget that two children were engaging into a tryst behind that door — and stopping in front of her oldest daughter's door. Catelyn waited until her breathing regulated itself, fixing her hair and dress before knocking lightly on the heavy wood to announce her entrance.

The door creaked, and she stepped into the room with her daughter's soft crying filling her ears. Catelyn sighed, closing the door behind her as she walked towards Sansa, sitting beside the girl on her bed.

"My sweet, don't you cry," She whispered, afraid if she spoke too loudly she would frighten the girl. "That man does not deserve your tears, in fact," Her hands framed her small face, bringing her closer to her own head and looking deeply into the blue eyes that were so similar to her own. "I don't want to ever see you with that bastard, do you hear me?" She swept her tears away with her thumb while Sansa looked at her with a small frown, lower lip trembling and sniffing.

"But he had only stopped to speak with me, mother," Her small hands grasped at Catelyn's own palms framing the child's face. "Truly mother, I haven't done anything wrong. I was only being polite like you taught me to."

"And what did I taught you about bastards?" Catelyn pursed her lips. "Especially that Ramsay fellow?"

"To not approach and avoid them always, for a lady should not deal with the likes of a child born of sin." The words fell dutifully as Sansa finally calmed herself. "But what should a lady do when she is approached by one? I couldn't be rude."

"You let him get too close, my dear, and that you cannot let any boy or man do, do you hear me?" Catelyn grasped the girl's chin, smiling softly at her dutiful daughter.

Sansa smiled, nodding once before hugging her tightly. Catelyn hugged her back, tucking Sansa beneath her chin and kissing the crown of her head.

"Now tell me," She backed away from her daughter, arms still circling her little form. "How was your first wedding?"

"Oh, mother," Her eldest sighed dreamingly, as she was wont to do. "It was magical, and Jon! Oh, I had never thought he could be so gallant!" Catelyn's soft smile strained, but she made herself not correct her daughter. She couldn't do such things as alienating her children when regarding the now rich and somewhat powerful Jon Snow of House Targaryen. Not that it had worked with any other than Sansa. "How he said his vows, so daring! And he was absolutely dashing all night long! Especially when that Essosi lord brought those slaves..." Sansa frowned lightly, a contemplative glint in her blue orbs. "He looked like a prince."

"But he is not." Her words went out more sharply than she intended, making Sansa flinch away from Catelyn's embrace. She sighed, shoulders falling in faint defat, chuckling mirthlessly as she lifted one hand to cover her eyes. "Forgive me, Sansa...It's just..." Her hand fell to her lap and she returned her gaze to the young girl. "Let us say that it has been a long night." She smiled, tucking one of her daughter's long strands of red hair behind one tiny ear. "Are you ready to sleep? It's late."

"Yes, I'm just waiting for my bath to be filled." She smiled softly, suddenly seeming to be a much older. Catelyn wondered when her baby had grown so much. "Go to bed, mother, I can take care of myself." Catelyn chuckled, standing up from the bed and walking towards the door.

"I bet you can, dear Sansa. Good night." Catelyn closed the door behind her, nodding towards her daughter's soft answer of good night.

She walked to her rooms in silence, stopping briefly to look into her husband's chamber and see it lit by candles but empty of its resident. Catelyn sighed tiredly, suddenly exhausted, and walked back to her empty room to prepare for a what she expected to be a long, lonely night of sleep.

 

•••

 

Catelyn woke up in an empty bed in the break of dawn.

For a few moments, she just laid there, looking at the empty spot beside her on the bed. She dragged her hand over the space, wishing for her husband but knowing he was far too troubled to be with her. Perhaps he had gone to his chambers?

With a heavy sigh, Lady Stark got up from the bed and left her rooms in search of her husband after slipping into a heavy robe. She entered her husband’s rooms and saw that his bed was untouched, and candles scattered around the room were still burning. Shaking her head, Catelyn turned around, leaving their chambers and walking through the dark corridors, she passed a few guards until Catelyn saw the red door.

Lips pressed tightly, she walked faster, passing by it without glimpsing at the retched door again. It led to the smallest room of the Family Wing in Winterfell, renovated by the bastard on the past year so it could accommodate him and his wife for their short stay before parting to their castle. The boy had painted the door in red himself after Lord Stannis had told him in letters that the girl had a love for the colour. Why he would paint a door red, Catelyn did not know and would not care to find out.

Catelyn walked through the corridors, passing guards and always showing courtesy to all until she reached the main courtyard. It was raining lightly, the beginnings of a downpour, she had no doubt, and Catelyn hesitated before delving into it, quickly turning toward the godswood.

She entered the small sacred forest, so different from the fresh and lighter one in her home in Riverrun. The godswood of Winterfell was solemn and dark, the scent of nature was strong and heavy, the trees seeming to loom over her in a dark embrace. She followed a path she now knew by heart, leading her to the heart tree, the sacred tree ethereal in the dawn, with only the light of candles and faint sunlight to lay witness to its pale glory. At its roots, kneeling with his sword Ice drawn in front of him, with its tip sunken into the ground while he rested his forehead against the round pommel, was a man.

Ned Stark kneeled on the ground for his Old Gods, praying for something she could not understand.

Catelyn wished to understand what made her husband so distressed. For years he had planned the wedding, only for the day's arrival bring a heavy burden that should have been lifted from his shoulders.

The rain fell in cold drops against her skin, getting harsher as the time passed.

“Ned…” Her husband didn’t turn, but he could listen to her voice, she knew. “What has gotten into you?” Catelyn approached her husband until she stood behind him, one of her hands gripping his shoulder with haste. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Your bastard and the Targaryen girl safe and sound in each other’s arms?”

His hair was as dark as night, falling heavily around his brow in wet strands. He looked at her over his shoulders, and even with the rain, she could see the clear tears in his eyes, barely visible with the growing sunlight in the sky. The dawn of a new day was upon them, casting ethereal light over the ancient trees and castle.

“Cat,” Catelyn trembled when his despair reached her ears in a harsh whisper, his lip trembling as his eyes shone with tears and raindrops. “Have I done right?” She shook her head, falling to her knees beside him and pulling his face close to hers, grasping him with her hands.

“With what, my love?” Cold seeped into her bones and she felt weightless like she was standing at the edge of a precipice. “What troubles you?”

“Jon,” He pulled away from her, bringing his face to the pommel of the Valyrian sword once more before looking up at the heart tree’s white branches stained by the rain. “Have I done right by him and Daenerys?” He sneered and she gripped the sleeve covering his left arm, her heart shattering for him as dread filled her up. “It must be wrong. Something like this shouldn’t be!” Ned snarled, an ugly twist of his solemn face that scared Catelyn to her core.

“Ned…” She whispered, gulping as she tried to turn his face around so he could face her. “I don’t understand.” Suddenly she didn’t want it anymore, this pathetic crying of his over a bastard who should have no place in the world yet gained so much, and her husband still wept and whined for him as if something ill had befallen over the boy. “Your base born son and his wife have everything a bastard and a disgraced princess could ever dream of and more!” She wrestled herself away from him, standing up from the muddy ground and regretting ever leaving her perfectly warm bed for a man who clearly hadn't thought of anything else but his _bastard_.

“No, Cat…” Ned turned his eyes heavenwards, a calm facet falling over his long face.

“No, what?” She covered her face, trying to will herself to not weep, containing the ugly, terrible things she wished to say, wished to do to that damn boy for coming to life. “Isn’t the gold enough? The castle?” Jon Snow had taken so much already, had taken too much. “You don’t spend half the time with your true born children that you spend to make that boy some sort of king of nothing!” She screamed, pointing back at the castle as if the boy stood in the direction she pointed at. “What more do you want to give him?” Finally, she sobbed, heavy tears mixing with the rain staining her face. “How much of yourself are you willing to give away for this boy, Ned?”

The Silent Wolf stared at her, hair wet and dark, glued to his scalp and face, grip strong on the pommel of his ancient sword as he finally stood from his kneeled position. His shoulders settled in the position of a lord, rigid and regal, as he loomed over her.

“I made a vow, Cat.” His words fell like thunder, no more crying or self-pitying. “A vow to care for that boy even before I held my own son in my arms.”

“Vow to who?” She struggled against the scream of rage building up on the back of her throat. “To a simple whore? A healer or a dishonourable Silent Sister who helped you after one of your battles? Ashara Dayne?!” She was gasping for air, suffocating with the words of accusation that had never dared to leave her mouth but seemed to not stop now that she finally let them flow out of her. She took a step closer to him, seeing the hurt in his face and viciously wanting him to feel it more. “She jumped to her death because she could not live with the heavy burden of a bastard in her arms, didn’t she?” Ned’s face fell into a dark mask, and she stepped even closer, banging her feasts against his chest. “Tell me, Ned!” He let the sword fall to the ground with a heavy thud, the rain was stopping, falling lightly again over their heads. “Tell me!”

Ned gripped her arms close to him, his huge hands circling the entirety of her lower arms as he brought her body close to his. Catelyn let her head fall on his shoulder for a moment, crying loudly as her husband held her. She lifted her head, leaning back so she could be looking his face.

“Tell me.”

Birds chirped around them, the clouds slowly parting so the sky could be seen and the faint rays of sunlight could illuminate the godswood. Ned’s hands were heavy on her and his grey eyes seemed to swallow her whole.

“Tell me, Ned.”

They stood in the dark for seemingly hours on end, the faint sunlight dancing through the branches of the ancient tree over them. Her heart pounded in her chest and she could hear her blood pumping, Catelyn wondered if her Ned could hear it too.

“Please.”

He breathed in, nostrils flaring sharply before he leaned forward, his lips grazing against her hear.

“Lyanna didn’t die of a fever.” Catelyn frowned, tried to pull her face away from him but his hand gripped the back of her head, stopping her from looking at him. She understood then, he would not tell her if he’d had to look at her. “She died of childbirth.”

It struck her into a few seconds, the realization that all bad which had ever happened to her — Brandon’s death, the rebellion, the war, the supposed infidelity of her husband — all because a young girl ran away with a married prince.

Catelyn took a step back as her husband finally let her go. She took another, looking up at the man’s face, searching for some hint of a joke, something which could tell her that what he had implied was a lie. Another lie.

She shook; her hands, her breath, her eyes, her heart, her _soul_. By the gods, all she had believed, all she knew had been stripped away from her. All that happened, all that pain and death, started because of a girl and man's whims.

“When I went to King’s Lading after the Lannister’s sacking,” His voice was a faraway sound, something muted and difficult to hear beyond the sound of her own world crashing. “I had the Targaryen heir in my arms, not a bastard,” She choked, gasped; something was stuck in her throat and she struggled to get it out, making the most pathetic noises as her husband advanced on her and she took steps back, trying to keep distance from him and his mad words. Catelyn wanted to look away from him, to not meet his longing stare begging her for something. Understanding, maybe forgiveness. “I told Robert that he was my bastard, and I was ready to leave immediately after…” His face scrunched up, in that same way he did when Sansa had been terribly ill a few years back when they thought they would lose their dear girl. “After I saw what he had done to the children. The children, Cat!” Ned shook his head, his arms extending towards her even when she flinched away from his embrace and he looked down at the ground with growing guilt.

Catelyn felt numb, completely, utterly numb. Her husband, honourable and loyal to a fault, had committed _treason_. Royal treason that could surely get him killed.

And she had thought the only vow he had broken was of fidelity to her.

“As I was leaving…Stannis arrived with that little small thing with wide eyes and wispy silvery hair…” Ned chuckled, deep and warm, his eyes misting with the same caring look she often had seen when he first laid his gaze onto their children. “I couldn’t let her end in such a horrible way.” He licked his lips, looking earnestly at her. “But did I do it right?” Ned pointed toward the castle, a frown clear in his brow. “My son, because that boy is my son, is married to his aunt, and he doesn’t even know it.”

“No, no, no, no.” She shook her head, eyes wide and frantic. The rain stopped, the sun was rising higher and higher, filling the sky and reaching its fiery fingers towards the earth. The heart tree painted the light coming from the skies red, the small stream glimmered with the freshness of sunlight and the early morning. Birds flew over the branches, singing in accordance, ignorant to the Lord Paramount’s confession. “Stop it, Ned.” Catelyn sobbed again, her chest hurt, her throat burned and her head screamed at her. “Stop this at once.”

Ned looked at her with pity. She hated, hated the look on his face.

“My family has practised such things once. I’m the son of cousins.” Finally, she let him cup her face, thumb gently caressing her cheek. “But they, Jon and that little girl, don’t know that they’re family.”

“You let the one thing that is a true symbol of that horrible war into your home?” She shook her head, puzzled, enraged, with her lord’s actions. “You let the product of your sister’s rape, her bastard, into your home and treated him as your son?”

“He is not!” He stepped forward, eyes wild for a moment before he took a deep breath. “Jon is… _Aegon_ is no bastard. He is no product of rape.” Catelyn gasped, one hand rising to cover her gaping mouth. “Lyanna and Rhaegar married.” His eyes roamed her face, doubt flashing for a moment before settling in resolution. “He is heir to the Iron Throne.”

Her knees failed her, and she fell to the ground never straying her gaze away from Eddard Stark. Best friend of the king, yet naming another Heir to his friend’s throne. Ned quickly kneeled in front of her, hugging her close to his chest with shaking arms.

“You mean to…to make the boy…”

“No.” His voice was solemn, more than any other time. “He will live a fine life in the far North.” He kissed her brow and she closed her eyes with force, shaking her head with all she had. “Let him be king of nothing.”

Ned held her in her arms for hours still, until they could hear the servants start roaming the courtyard and the kitchen chimes start spitting out dark smoke.

“Promise me, Cat.” Slowly, she pulled her head from where it rested on his shoulder so she could look up at him, meeting his dark Stark grey orbs with her Tully blue ones. “Keep this to yourself, and try to see him as the boy he is, not by his blood.”

She didn’t respond.

“Promise me, Cat.”

She didn’t respond.

“Promise me.”

“…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things were thrown into this chapter. Catelyn by end of this is kind of in shock?
> 
> Okay, let's go scene by scene.
> 
> When Cat, Ned, Stannis, Davos and Melisandre are talking, we see it all from the perspective of Cat, who really don't like the idea of Jon Snow having so much power. To be honest, I think everything about this meeting (and the whole chapter) is all about chaos. Things just keep piling up one after another. This scene was more of an introduction of the conflicts Dany and Jon will face for the foreseeable future while laying each central parental-ish character's positioning, basically, their family's sides when they get into 'battle' so to speak. Catelyn is the only one in the room that really doesn't side with them, she sides with whatever keeps her family alive and definitively won't put herself out there for Jon Snow.
> 
> When Stannis oh so casually lays where his alliances fall should things with Robert go south, well, that freaks everyone out, but no one feels it more than Catelyn who really understands the fine politics of the South. So she hets out of Ned's solar and ends up facing Ramsay who seems to be trying to seduce Sansa, at least in her mind.
> 
> One thing that I want to let really clear to y'all; Ramsay is not plotting some devious seduction on Sansa. I picked Sansa exactly because I knew it would bring the chills when you guys read this. Things went as Sansa said, but she didn't understand that he wanted to play with her. Why? Because that's Ramsay. He needed to entertain himself until he found Catelyn, who he was searching for to warn about Lysa and Littlefinger. Now, why the hell would he come to Catelyn with that kind of thing? Exactly what he said, and exactly what Cat thought. He is crazy and paranoic to anything that could come to harm Jon. He lays a pretty game that would always challenge Jon to his maximum, putting him in the worst situations in an 'if ya can overcome this, then you're worthy' kind of thing but other than this, he really wants Jon to succeed and, in his mind, he needed to make it clear to Cat that yeah, she needed to keep her sister and her fuck boy in check otherwise it could hurt Jon's image. He doesn't know that planting a seed of mistrust in Catelyn could end up having some pretty heavy consequences a few years ahead. Which consequences? You'll see.
> 
> By now, Cat is on automatic. She isn't functioning correctly because she can snap any moment with all the pent-up stress. She goes to Sansa, as any caring mother would because that's what calms her. The mothering, the caring, the nurturing part of her life that makes everything worth living. I tried to show this by the short and almost non-existing inner monologue. She's all action and movements, instinct.
> 
> The next day, Cat is calm, numb and trying to avoid any thought on what happened on the previous day. She goes to her husband who is still lamenting after whatever had bothered him for so long. She comes to him as vulnerable as he felt, and that paid off. The truth hurts a lot, and I wanted to show some other reaction than just relief of not being betrayed by her husband. I ended the chapter in a sort of parallel way to Lyanna's last words to Ned, asking him to promise her that he would protect Jon. As for Ned calling Jon 'heir to the throne', that's a fact but it will not happen, not for Ned. He does not want and will not put Jon on the throne, and I like to think that's the reason he tried so hard to build something for Jon in Queenscrown.
> 
> I think that's all I have to say for this chapter. I really want to know your thought and questions on it, especially because it took a long while to plan it correctly. I changed up a lot of things on the long road so it would fit nicely with this chapter. Give your thoughts, suggestions, critics, correction and whatever else you got! Please, review!
> 
> ~Mari


	4. Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys discovers she really likes spending some naked time with Jon, finds out a little bit about her castle, decides that both her husband and his manservant are stupid and she is doomed to work with reckless children and, still, Jon manages to snatch just a bit more of her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hiatus has ended! Yay!
> 
> In these months apart, this story has grown like crazy. When I started this, I barely had even a timeline or a proper storyline, now I have this planned quite a few chapters ahead as well as prequels in my head and noted down somewhere.
> 
> Because of that, things will be a bit strange because I decided to further edit small but key things in the previous chapter so it would fit the ones following it. I'll further explain this in the final notes, of course.
> 
> Also, I wanted to thank angelinasway for helping me edit this monster of an update! You're an angel of a beta! This chapter is dedicated to her amazing mom, who unfortunately passed away recently, may she rest in peace.

“Shouldn’t we sleep?” Jon’s hoarse voice came from the bed. He lounged drowsily with his head propped up by giant pillows while thick furs covered his body, keeping the Northern cold at bay. “It’s late in the night.”

Daenerys chuckled, not bothering to answer her lord husband as she put the final bits of food on the small tray she was preparing for them to partake in. She balanced the tray on one of her hands, trying to imitate a servant girl. She pivoted on one foot, turning towards the bed with a cheeky smirk that quickly gave place to a yelp and a wince as she scrambled to catch the tray before it fell off her hand. Jon barked a laugh as she held firmly to the messed tray of finger foods — cheeses, small square sandwiches and fruits — while staring intently at it, face burned red with embarrassment. Dany walked toward Jon with a lowered head, sitting down carefully and putting the tray between them on the bed.

“Here, my lord,” She spoke timidly, suddenly very shy and uncertain of how he thought of her after such an embarrassing display of clumsiness.  _Ridiculous!_  Her mind hissed. They had just shared the intimacy of lovers in a way a political paring such as them, surely, had never done with such care and devotion as they did. Still, she fingered the hem of her white shift, which she had put on after their…tryst? Lovemaking?  _Gods_ , she thought, it was embarrassing and, and…arousing —  _oh, gods,_ her head would explode from shame — to think about.

One of his callused fingers curled under her chin, gently pushing her head up so she could meet his kind and uncertain smile. In her chest, something unfurled and blossomed, an equal tentative smile on her lips that made him let go of her chin and turn his gaze upon the tray.

Smiling widely, Dany took one of the small sandwiches and ate it, humming quietly in appreciation while Jon chose one of the fruits, — a blood orange, she recognized, —  getting the whole thing and laying back on the bed, slowly peeling the thick shell with his own fingers while resting his back onto the many pillows against the canopy bed’s headboard. She took the opportunity to look at her —  _their,_  she promised. There would be no such thing as separate rooms in her marriage! — room.

It was a tradition that, after the bedding ceremony, — which they didn’t participate. Dany was sure there would be talk of it for the rest of their lives because people tended to be superstitious and closed minded when regarding their own culture and customs. Especially in Westeros. — the new husband and wife went to the bridal bedchambers to consummate their marriage. Dany guessed that these were her own chambers for their remaining time in Winterfell until their Queenscrown was suitable for living. She thought that maybe they’d stay for years still, but Jon had travelled there more than once, she assumed. He ought to know about their castle’s administrations and progress; surely he knew when they would move there.

“How long until our home is ready for us?” Violet eyes turned just in time to see his eyes widen, fingers stopping midair with a piece of his chosen fruit ready to be swallowed. Jon recovered quickly and with a blink, he was back to his cool eyes and the slight smile she was slowly but surely getting addicted to.

“It _is_ , actually, ready for us.” Dany halted, blinking rapidly and then frowning. Her husband tilted his head, curiosity lacing his words. “You didn’t know.” She huffed, looking away from him and towards the hearth blazing with hot flames.

“No, I did not.” She took a deep breath. “The Usur-” Gulping, she stopped herself from continuing and dared not looking back at Jon, whose father was the Usurper’s best of friends. Silence reigned over the room, the cracking of the fire and their breathing the only sources of sound. Fear gripped her mind, paranoid and terrified that the end of their easy relationship would come with that; with Jon Snow realizing his Targaryen wife was not one bit loyal to the king she had kneeled for the protection of her —  _their_  — House.

For her own protection even.

_Dragon whore! Kneel!_

Pain, bruises, blood, cruel laughter, cruel eyes, cruel _everything_.

_You are nothing._

“The…” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, searching into herself the will to utter words which fell so easily from her lips when in the company of family, — Lord Stannis, Lady Melisandre, Ser Davos, Lord Aurene, Shireen and many others she had  _chosen_  as family —  and it hurt to not find such courage in her; not now when she barely knew Jon Snow of House Targaryen. “…King…” The word tasted bitter, turning on her tongue like acid and lies. “Has ordered long ago to leave me in the dark for much of Queenscrown’s construction and planning.” Turning back to Jon, she met his dark gaze piercing her, no doubt seeing what she attempted to hide so pitifully. Dany smiled weakly, and his cool eyes were enough reassurance for her at that moment. “I didn’t even know for sure we were to rule over Queenscrown or Moat Caitlin or Sea Dragon Point. Not until this night, when Lord Stannis took me to…you.” She tilted her head, one hand rising slowly to caress his chin with her thumb. He gulped, and she smiled, more genuinely this time, letting her hand fall back to her lap. 

“Why?” Jon frowned heavily, his brooding face twisting in shadows cast by the dancing fire in their hearth. “It seems folly. I knew it for as long as I knew of us.” She chuckled bitterly, somewhat jealous of him.

“Because I am the Targaryen spawn.” Her violet eyes looked at him and willed him to see the fire and hatred that burned in her for  _that man._  “I shan’t gather loyalists around my castle.” She took one of the cheeses on the tray and threw it into her mouth, chewing slowly. “Best to let me in the dark.” Jon shook his head in disbelief.

“But we had so many letters exchanged regarding your preferences and suggestions.” He bit onto one of his blood orange pieces. “Father received many a letter from both you and your guardian.” He huffed out a disbelieving laugh while shaking his head, dragging himself closer to her, pushing the tray out of his way. “Your suggestions and ideas were…” Jon shook his head, his eyes suddenly clear and passionate under the candlelight, stealing her breath away and making her heart flutter. “…revolutionary.”

With her cheeks set ablaze, Dany looked away from him, staring at the sheet covering their mattress, incapable of meeting the boy’s stare when he was so…so… _Jon._

“You flatter me, my lord.” She mumbled in an unladylike way. Thin fingers shifted over the sheer nightshift covering her lap, digging into the delicate texture with the purpose of, somehow, deflecting his gaze and words from her, who had stood unknowing of their home for the entirety of her life, always wondering and dreaming and demanding for this or that. Uncertain if her wishes and ideas would be of use to the architects, to her lord guardian, to her good-father, to her husband. To  _somebody._

_Unlike Jon_ , she thought, bitterly; _unlike Jon who must’ve known their castle more than she knew anywhere else_.

“Flatter you?” She heard him chuckle, could hear him getting up from the bed and taking the tray with him. Perhaps he was mocking her, she thought, sad and betrayed for the image she had made of her boy-husband.

Violet orbs watched Jon as he put the food tray on the small table facing the hearth. She blushed to the root of her fine gold-slivery hairs at the vision of his naked behind, but her gaze never strayed as he walked towards the various chests assembled in one of the corners of the chamber. She could recognize some as her own, others were overelaborate and ostentatious, baring diverse sigils and embellishments, in diverse sizes and materials. Those, Dany knew, were their wedding gifts. There were three other trunks, closer to her own ones, small and dark, that called for her attention, and Jon’s too, for he walked towards them with confidence.

He kneeled in front of one, opening it and taking out a white nightshirt, pulling it over his head and covering his upper body down to his thighs. He turned to a smaller chest, closing the one he took the sleeping garment from and opening the small chest. He grabbed a few papers, standing up and walking back to the bed while fiddling with, she assumed, the documents.

“I was…keeping these for tomorrow,” Jon spoke hesitatingly, slowly sitting down next to her on her side of the bed. “Or today, I guess, it’s early enough.” She raised an eyebrow. He coughed awkwardly and then nodded towards the papers. He offered one to her and she took it gently. “This is a letter Lord Stannis sent to my father in the first years of construction. The Outer West-most Wall and the castle’s foundations were under construction, and the architects and engineers had been on an ongoing argument about the water supply and how they would keep it from freezing.” He smiled at her, a small twitch of the corner of his lips that seized a smile out of her in response. “Lord Stannis sent this, the words of his young ward of only three, almost four, if I’m not mistaken, which started a revolution in engineering.”

Dany frowned a bit, bitting on her lip as she directed her gaze down towards the paper in her hand, immediately recognizing her cousin’s handwriting.

“In his words, you said that snow was water, and it was only needed to be simply heated, and then everything else would be warm.” She could hear the pride in his voice, strange when such silly wording fell from his lips. “And from your young words, the heated aqueducts of Queenscrown were born.”

Daenerys stopped reading. Her eyes stuck to her cousin’s sharp words of her early development and curiosity over her future home, his harsh demands for Jon Snow’s upbringing still half read as she turned her eyes back to her betrothed.

Jon looked innocent, far too innocent. He gazed at her with wide eyes, a slight smile on his lips making obvious he was smug, perhaps excited, about something. He sat on his folded legs, gripping to the other papers, some letters and even drawings, — the castle plans?! — his shirt rode up on his thighs, and she could even glimpse his soft manhood — _bad Dany! Look away, you perverted girl!_  — beneath his nightwear. She glued her eyes to his pretty face, asking with no words for him to elaborate.

“Our castle, well, it is not  _only_ a castle that we have control over.” He pulled a bigger piece of paper that held a incredibly detailed drawing of what looked like a circular city, filled with colour, with futuristic and complex aspects in its precise streets and grid circular system leading to a blue area with a big dark big circle in it with another lines surrounding it, opening up to…a plaza? “They, our builders, started building the outer wall that marked the limits of the thousands of miles of ground surrounding the original tower of Queenscrown, which was built upon a tiny piece of land inside the lake that is fed by the mountains’ springs. The wall started to be built by the mountains, on the west side.” His finger traced over the thick markings of an incomplete circle that was cut at its westmost end by the many mountains she had read about surrounding Queenscrown. At the very centre of the circle, she could see the lake, painted in clear blue, with a circular building inside it that took most of its space. “The inner walls surround the closer grounds leading to the lake and actual castle. A private park, orchard or whatever else you wish it to be for us divides the grounds leading to the lake and then, the castle. We couldn’t afford to let anyone pollute the waters that fed our castle and the crops and the entire…city, let’s call it so, so we had to build an inner, smaller, wall surrounding the lake, and a bit of land.” She looked at him with surprised eyes, her mouth was hanging open, she was sure, but Dany couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“A city?!” She leaned closer to him, suddenly desperate. “You told me we had a  _town!_ ” She hissed, feeling outraged that he had, perhaps, lied to her. “I know the difference! I’m not stupid!” He looked chastened enough, cringing slightly and hunching his shoulders forward as he directed his gaze down.

“The  _plans_ for a city.” He traced the area that was cut by the mountains, where streets were a bit more disorganized than the symmetric and planned divisions between the Outer and Inner circles, which were empty, unlike the area he showed her, which pictured diverse buildings. “Only the West area is populated, with a small town that grew quickly, with the builders and artisans, then the miners and mountain clans…” He murmured, finger pointing toward what she guessed was the entrance to the castle, faced West, with an oval plaza facing it. 

At the very entrance of the castle, at the mouth of the inner castle’s walls opening up to the plaza, was a blue dot of the same colour as the lake. A few meters — she assumed it was meters — away, on the other side of the oval plaza, was a circle with an ‘x’ inside it. Following it was a juncture of buildings that surrounded one grand one she assumed was a Sept, by one of its ‘towers’ having seven points and each tile being painted in the colours for the seven new gods. It was there that his finger stopped, tapping it twice. 

“We have the grounds to support a city but not the people for it to be a  _proper_  city; it was a deliberate move of my lord father, and approved by your guardian, to give us so much ground, defended by a great wall.” His finger traced the wall he spoke of, covering even as much — or even more! — ground than King’s Landing. “We needed to be able to defend ourselves and to have a strong grip on those lands. A single castle would be easily overthrown, and we could never hope to truly populate the Gift on our lonesome.” He smiled fondly, a memory of his playing behind those beautiful orbs of his. “The capital city of the far North, my Uncle Benjen often joked with me.”

Gasping, Dany shook her head, eyes falling from his face to the map laid over their messy bed.

“Still,” She whispered, lost and confused, yet elated to have such an amazing home built for them. “I do not understand how this,” She shook Lord Stannis’ letter toward him. “Has anything to do with me and our home.”

Her young husband smiled softly, making her blush, her belly flutter and her toes curl in a funny way.

“Do you see all these blue dots, and blue lines between streets crossing the districts?” Jon took her hand in his, extending his pointer finger over hers and guiding her over the paper, following the blue on it through their…home…with the utmost care. “These are the heating systems, emerging as warm water fountains or artificial streams into the streets, connected by copper tubes carved into stone ways forming underground tunnels, giving heated water to all of Queenscrown, making it as warm as a Southern or Essosi city.” In her mind’s eyes, she imagined stone-paved streets, luminescent in white stone that was warm beneath her feet, snow falling from the sky quickly melting as it reached the ground. “The warmth comes from furnaces located beneath the earth. They are spread strategically over the grounds so every part is heated evenly, proportioning an adequate temperature. Snow never really touches the ground for long before it melts.”

“But the snow…when it melts…” She looked up, breathless at how close they were, how easy it would be to put her lips on his full ones. “Wouldn’t it flood the streets?”

He smiled, proudly, lifting his chin and meeting her stare headlong.

“Our stone paths were made over inclined grounds leading to the lake and the crops, where a waterway system beyond my comprehension keeps our glasshouses properly hydrated. To be a simpleton, it is a raised city, so there is water running beneath the streets to its proper places.” He smiled softly then, one hand cupping her cheek with slight hesitation. “Our castle is a wonder of the world too. Come winter, Winterfell will not be so densely occupied. People will seek the comforting warmth of  _our_  Queenscrown too.” It was uttered lowly, a hesitant whisper that spoke of how shy Jon Snow was, how careful he was with his words and how scared he was to utter them aloud and face their backlash. But his words rang with the pride of a true Targaryen in that moment, as if the same fire in her veins ran through his; the pride over what was _theirs_.

“It all seems like a dream…” She whispered back, dazed by his words and not managing to look away from him.

Jon’s hands were calloused as they grasped her cheeks, bringing her close to him and resting his forehead against hers. His smile was full of promises, and his next words resonated with her deeply. It slipped into her bones like a sigh of relief, filled her lungs with pride that was as endless as the sky.

“And it is all because of you. This warm home of ours; it exists because of _you_.” She gasped, — sobbed — gulping and closing her eyes as he laid a soft kiss on her brow. “Thank you, Dany.”

_Dany._

She could remember him calling out for her in his Northern, gruff, accent with the nickname while they were in the throes of their inexperienced passion. It was a name that only Shireen and her many protectors used. It felt different when Jon called her by it. It felt…intimate and warm and loving and…

Tears fell down her cheeks, running warm, wet, paths on her skin as she sobbed quietly, going over the map between them and sitting on his lap, skinny legs circling his waist, uncaring by his surprised high-pitched yelp. Her arms hugged him over his shoulders and she pushed her head into the skin of his neck. Sobbing and crying, she thanked him a thousand times over and over and over.

This was her  _husband_.

She, a three-and-ten namedays old disgraced princess was  _condemned_ to marry the best man — boy,  _being_  — in all of Westeros. In all of the known world.

Dany was so damned lucky.

Even now, as he awkwardly put his arms around her sobbing form, it was with the utmost care, with a gentleness that was so very rare to find in the bleak world they lived in. Dany had expected so many things from their marriage, had feared for so many others.

Nothing had prepared her for Jon Snow.

Untangling herself from his arms, she drew back from his embrace. She looked at him, as deeply as she could in that moment, with the faint light of the candles surrounding them. Dany took the map from the bed, gathering the letters and papers that had fallen beside him on the pelts and dropped them on the ground. She put her hands to work on the flimsy laces holding her shift together. She quickly disassembled it, letting it fall loosely on her shoulders and shrugging it off.

Even as her naked skin was revealed from beneath the sheer texture falling to her lap, Jon’s eyes never left her face. His pupils widened, making his beautiful grey orbs into the bottomless black pits she remembered from hours past. Dany could already feel his hardness poking at her, making goosebumps surge up in her whole body. Her small hands travelled up his strong arms, across his shoulders, and down again over his torso until she reached his narrow hips. She gathered the linen shirt covering his body and removed it in one swift movement, intent on having his skin close to hers once more.

Daenerys knew she was not behaving like a lady should. She knew that, technically, by the rules of their society, she was behaving like a wanton woman. Perhaps she was behaving strangely to most, being too bold with her passion for her age, but Dany could not find it in herself to care for the opinions of others when it came to the matters of  _her_  intimate life.

Lady Melisandre had taught her that such passions in a marriage were what gave life to couples. It was not shameful. Maybe Lord Stannis thought it differently, but his marriage was not the happiest she had ever seen.

The removal of the nightshirt had mussed his beautiful locks into an even more chaotic state, making her chuckle through her soft sniffles. Dany let her eyes roam his body, watching as his hands moved hesitatingly from where they rested on her back to her abdomen, caressing the skin there and making her sigh.

She inclined forward, touching her chest to his as she angled her head up. Their lips touched — a ghost of a kiss, a remembrance of a touch — as light as a teasing feather tickling the skin.

 

•••

 

When Dany woke up, she was laying on her side, her face nestled closely to a soft mane of dark curls. They filled her nose with a faint earthy scent, the strands pressed to her mouth softly, like petals of some sort of flower. She blinked, confused for a moment, memories of the past night filling her mind, making her both warm with sensations so complex and paradoxical, she had to bite her lip to keep back a moan. Was it possible to feel such desire, thankfulness, uncertainness, and even embarrassment the way she did?

It was surreal, the feeling of waking up in a warm bed beside another body so close to her — his skin on her skin, the hard member of his pressing hotly to the inside of her thigh, his strong arms hugging her so tightly she never felt more cherished. His warm hands pressed open to her back felt as if they were meant to touch only her, and she loved how his breath fanned on her neck and his mouth was so close to her — in such an intimate position. It was a daring feeling that provoked faint flames of rebellion in her like she was doing something forbidden. Lying in bed with a boy, having him with her in the most intimate of ways, doing what she was told was not allowed since she first knew of the sexual relationships of men. It felt…liberating.

Dany…liked it.

She liked how they were entwined, how close they were to each other. In the way only a man and a woman could be. In the way of  _lovers_.

A giddy feeling fluttered in her chest like butterflies over a field of wildflowers. It left her warm and breathless; leaving only what must have been happiness in its path. A smile grew on her lips and she bit lightly to them, a few of his dark curls caught by her teeth, digging into her flesh and making her chuckle. She buried her face into Jon’s lustrous black curls and sighed deeply, something like relief in her. She brought her arms more tightly across his shoulders, pressing his head more closely to her, wanting to feel his bony, oddly muscled, young body close to her own gangling childish with barely a womanly curve one. Dany wondered how they would grow up to be. Would he be taller? Would she?

On the previous night, he proved to her that they could be something more and greater than only a humiliating wedding, a political match. He had shown compassion and empathy and  _kindness._  He hadn’t only taken her maidenhead, he had given her pleasure, had given and had cared for her. Jon had done unthinkable things to her, with his mouth, with his body, with his mind, his words, his  _heart_.

What they had was a promise to love, she couldn’t help but think.

Ser Davos had often spoken of his lovely wife, Marya, and how much he loved her. Marya herself, for more she bantered with her husband, it was always done with the softest eyes Dany had ever seen in a woman. Ser Davos always made sure to visit his family as much as he could, and Marya never turned her back on him or on Dany the handful of times she visited along with Ser Davos.

Dany had looked at them and had only seen a dream, a utopian heaven only rarely gifted by the gods. They were so different from her lord guardian and his lady wife. Dany, when young, hadn’t even known that wives and husbands shared  _rooms_. Lord Stannis and Lady Selyse  _never_  slept with each other. Not once in Dany’s childhood when she’d go for her lord guardian’s room, seeking his protection from many a nightmare that haunted her young mind, had she seen the Lady of House Baratheon of Dragonstone sharing her husband’s bed. When in her first visit to Cape Wrath, she had searched for Ser Davos after waking from yet another nightmare, both he and Lady Marya welcomed her into their arms as if she was their daughter.

Dany wanted her marriage to be like Lady Marya’s. She and Jon would share their marriage bed. They would be partners, companions. She would not be a useless wife whose only use would be her womb, like Lady Selyse, who only sprouted inpatient, often callous, words to Dany. No.

Daenerys Targaryen was Lady of House Targaryen of the North, lady of Queenscrown.

And she would not give up on her happiness. Not when Jon was so gentle and caring and… _Jon._

Giggling, Dany nuzzled the top of his head while one of her hands sneaked around the back of his head, pushing it down, tucking him under her chin as she caressed his scalp with her nails slowly scraping on his skin, the way she had done the previous night as they laid on the bed, after he took her maidenhood.

Jon took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and his chest expanding and pressing against her. He pressed his head against her caress, a slight groan falling from his mouth. Smiling, she let her fingers grab his tresses and gently pull his head away as she leaned her head back so she could gaze upon his face.

Her husband frowned, full lips pressing into a thin line as he slowly blinked his eyes. The haze of sleep still clouded him for a few seconds before dark grey orbs focused straight on her. Jon looked intensively at her, his gaze connecting with her violet eyes with rapt attention, taking her breath away.

“Good morning, my lord,” She whispered to him in soft greeting.

Dany watched him, watched as his gaze roamed her face with wide eyes and rapidly growing heavy breaths, while his cheeks both paled drastically and reddened furiously not a moment later.

They were so  _young_. Her beloved husband had still a bit of the same baby fat in his cheeks as she had in hers; they were still so skinny, she barely held curves and he was strangely muscular for such a young age, but at the same time not. Even as his eyes widened and his cheeks, his neck, and his chest colored red with the same embarrassment of nudity and intimacy she felt, Dany could still feel his sprawled hands on her back grasping her body tight, digits digging into her skin with haste as his arms brought her closer to him and his eyes darkened with the same desire she felt at that moment.

She arched her back into his grasp, her small breasts coming closer to his face. Dany lowered her head, never breaking eye contact with her lord husband until she could bump her forehead lightly to his. One of her hands slowly caressed his hair, his ear, until she could reach his jaw. She gasped slightly when she felt the fine thick hair roughly scratching at her fingertips. She could see him gulping slightly before he leaned into her touch. The coarse hairs of his jaw dug sharply into her skin, and when Jon slowly moved into her touch, they tickled and she quickly took her hand away with a small yelp. Jon blinked at her, brows furrowing worryingly.

“You tickled me.” She giggled, lips stretching into a large smile as she cupped his jaw once more, this time bringing his face closer to her own as she laid a quick kiss on his cheek in reassurance. Dany giggled once more into his skin when she felt the short, coarse hairs against her lips. She dragged her nails over his jaw, the way he seemed to like and also enjoying the foreign sensation of his facial hairs upon her skin. “You have a beard, usually?”

“Lady Stark made us shave before your arrival.” His gruff, northern voice whispered in her skin as he turned to nuzzle against her, nodding to her question. Good, she thought, he wasn’t hesitating in being intimate.

“Do you prefer to have a clean face?” Dany whispered, leaning against him.

“No,” He pulled back so they could look at each other again. “My face gets cold too easily.”

She hummed, her hand cupping his jaw once more with her thumb caressing his skin. It didn’t take long for something short of a realization to dawn on her, and Dany smirked secretively at her husband.

“Well, then,” She lowered her body, scooting it down on the bed so they were eye level with each other. A surprised moan left her lips at the feeling of their skin sliding against each other. Jon’s breath trembled, and when his hardness settled close to her entrance he gasped, eyes wide looking into her with shaking desire. “You don’t have to listen to Lady Catelyn anymore.” She gulped, grasping his head and leaning her lips against his. “I’m the only lady you’ll have to listen to, and it happens that I don’t care if your face has a beard or not, as long as you don’t freeze to death.”

He blinked once, thrice before there was a response to her words.

A beautiful smile took form on his pouty lips, his eyes shining with heavy gratitude before he kissed her lips unskillfully, like herself, she thought with light humour. Dany kissed him back with all she had, biting his lower lip. She gasped when his tongue danced over her lips in a long stroke that reminded her of his ministrations of the last night. She opened her mouth to him and soon he tasted the inside of her with his hungry tongue, exploring the cavern of her warmth with a craving she did her best to match.

His fingers dug into her long tresses, grasping tightly to her as one of his arms wove around her waist and hugged her body to his. She put one leg over him, dragging her feet up on the back of his leg as one of her hands grasped his shoulder, and the other she dragged down the skin of his back. He arched into her and gasped, giving way for her to delve into his mouth with her own tongue.

Neither the taste of his mouth or the scent of his breath were pleasing, not after a full night’s sleep, but the notion barely passed through her mind before Jon Snow completely dominated her with his soft lips and dancing tongue. His wandering hands clumsily but effectively giving way to more of the foreign passion she couldn’t help but yearn for. The shy boy didn’t think even for a moment of denying her pleasure, and she could quite recall the other night when he kissed, licked, and sucked her cunt with the utmost vigour. Dany didn’t even know something like  _that_  could be done, and she blushed hotly at the mere thought of doing it again — she wanted it to happen again so much it scared her.

Messily, they kissed and kissed, dancing with their mouths and singing with their bodies. Their saliva mixed and smeared over their lips, their breaths fell heavily out of their mouths as they rutted against each other. Jon nudged her knees apart and she opened for him, lacing her leg over his and setting her aching core over his leg with a shuddering gasp. His harsh breathing fawned over her like hot steam, one of his hands reached for her nape, settling there with urgency to bring her closer — always closer — to him.

“What is this?” She gasped out, disoriented with the swirling lust holding their bodies and souls and controlling their actions like they were mere puppets, more than willing to indulge into their awakened sexuality. Wasn’t it a sin? Wasn’t it forbidden? Wasn’t it wrong of them, to desire and to grasp so eagerly to the carnal sides of life when they had met for barely two days? “Isn’t this too fast? Tell me, Jon, why does this feel so... _so good_?” Surely, they were in the wrong. Surely she was being far too forward.

“I don’t know.” His voice was high and breathless, eyes so dark they were black as he gazed at her. Jon laid his forehead against hers, both hands rising to the back of her head, closing his eyelids forcefully. Dany mirrored his position, letting their bodies rest against each other. “It’s strange, but very, very good, my lady.” Laughing breathlessly, she let her head fall back to her pillow, dragging her hands over his skin until they rested loosely around his neck. Jon rolled over her body, putting his forearms on either side of her head as he supported his weight while pushing his hips against hers and drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.

He jerked forward again, drawing deep and quick breaths as he stared down at her with wide eyes. Dany looked up at him in the same way, fascinated by the sensations his touches were causing her.

She wanted more.

A sharp knock on the door reminded her otherwise.

Jon drew away from her, his chest heaving for air as they laid there, eyes connected and nude skin touching. One of her hands rose, tucking one dark wave of his hair behind an ear and then gently cupping his face. Amazingly, in a gesture that took her breath away on how simple and trusting it was, — intimacy was such a puzzling thing — Jon closed his eyes, his long face serene and brooding still as he leaned against her hand fully, with his open mouth gasping shakily as he pushed his nose into her skin, inhaling deeply in the most sensual act Dany had ever beheld.

Warm breath left her mouth, playing with his fine hair as it dangled over her. She inhaled deeply, appreciating the scent coming from the boy before raising herself and kissing him, ignoring the knocking on the door and the voice of Lady Melisandre coming from behind it.

“Go.” She breathed out, eye closed as she nuzzled him with her nose. “We must ready ourselves for the day.” His grunt brought a short laugh from her. “What is it?”

“I do not wish to go,” He turned his eyes away from her, pursing his lips as his cheeks turned a light pink. His lips formed a small smile, and she wished to kiss his nose in an affectionate gesture. But she held herself back. Dany did not wish to impose herself on him too much.

_Too late now,_  a part of her snickered.

She swatted the treacherous thought away.

“But you must.”

His responding pout was as endearing as his shy but solemn personality. It made her laugh, showing her teeth and making her eyes crinkle. Jon’s cheeks were pink and his smile was tight as if he was trying to contain it as he lowered his face into the pillow her head was resting on. Dany laughed harder, hands clutching his back as she buried her nose into his shoulder.

“Come, Jon.” She nudged him up with her body, one of her hands slowly travelling the expense of his back, fingers light on his skin. As she got to his shoulder, she pressed her palm to it and turned her nose to his neck, caressing it with the tip and breathing in the scent of his sweaty skin and curly hair. The thick locks tickled her skin. “Our family awaits.”

He leaned back, supported by his forearms framing her head, both arms burying themselves beneath her pillow and she felt his hands clutching it and pulling it up, making her tilt her face up as he brought his lips over hers. Jon stopped there, reluctant, with his eyes closed and teeth biting lightly to his full lower lip still swollen from their earlier kisses, breaths mingling in the small distance that separated them.

Her orbs moved over his face, young and unblemished, still fat with boyhood and full of the same buzzing desire she felt. She gasped, clutching him tighter, nails pushing into his skin as she arched into him. Lips brushed against lips, not even pressing into a full kiss, and yet…

And yet.

Another knock on the door made them both jump, Jon immediately sliding his arms from under her pillow and kneeling on the bed with her between his legs, her with his face caught fire. He was gasping for air, as was she, open-mouthed and dark-eyed and his member…

Dany bit her lip, turning her face away as he hastily got out of the bed, taking one sheet with him as he bent down to grab his white nightshirt on the floor. She caught sight of his behind and yelped, making him turn back to look at her with wide, alarmed eyes before cringing and putting on his shift.

To see Jon Snow gather his clothes and unbolt the vibrant red door, opening it to face a curious Melisandre and three handmaidens was more amusing than it should have been, and she had to contain her laughter as she rose from her position.

The boy had taken a deep breath before opening the door, and when he did, his whole face and neck turned red for a moment, eyes wide as he stared up at the tall red figure of the Priestess. His face then settled into the cold mask Dany was familiar with from the few days they had spent together in public. He had bowed to the women, murmured greetings and then bolted out of the room with haste.

The Red Priestess wasted no time in approaching Dany, who stayed on the bed. Sitting, naked, on the bed and watching her approach with a slight smile on her lips. Melisandre lifted one red eyebrow at her, eyes narrowing slyly as a smirk grew on her own.

“It is uncommon for a lord to sleep beside his new bride on their wedding night.”

The Targaryen could see her three new handmaidens posted behind the woman, all of them nicely dressed and groomed in Targaryen colours and simple clothes. The Red Woman pointed to the various chests and gifts in one of the chamber’s corners with a careless gesture of her hand, sitting on the edge of the bed with red eyes glued to Dany.

“It is.” Daenerys agreed, nodding her head regally like she imagined her lady mother did when she was queen. She could see Jhiqui and Irri dragging a beautiful copper bathtub that had been hidden behind the mountain of gifts inside the bathing chamber.

“And yet,” She tilted her head, a genuine smile on her lips as she watched over Dany. “Jon Snow did.” Violet orbs didn’t move from the older woman’s face, a timid smile and a bashful giggle escaping her, making her clasp her hands over full lips, trying and failing to contain the full beam on her lips that transformed her whole face.

Dany nodded eagerly, tears of happiness in her eyes she did not allow to stream down her face, her whole being overflowing with joy and utter  _relief_  as she laid her hands on her lap.

“Yet,” She took a deep breath, eyes soft as she gazed at one of her dear mentors. “Jon Snow did.”

Finally, a smile grew on the lady priestess’ lips, genuine and relieved as she leaned toward her, one hand cupping Dany’s cheek, as she used to do when the girl came to her to chase away monsters and fears. Happiness swept over Dany like a blanket, halting fears and nightmares and anything bad in the world. She may never truly believe in Melisandre’s god the same way Lady Selyse and her group did, and Dany didn’t need to. Melisandre held a deep affection for her that she reciprocated tenfold because Melisandre was the only mother she knew other than Lady Marya.

“He was gentle and made sure…” She bit her lip, gaze falling on her lap. “He made sure I enjoyed it too!” She laughed breathlessly, lifting one hand to sweep her tears away. “I will love him, I know it.”

The older woman nodded, chuckling slightly as she leaned away.

“Good.” She clasped her hands on top of her lap, composing herself into the aloof Red Priestess that Dany knew so well. “That’s very good, my child.”

“Not so much a child anymore, Lady Melisandre.” The mischief was apparent in her tone, and Dany smirked at the lady.

It broke her composure once more, bringing a loud, deep laugh out of the woman and making Dany herself laugh freely, drawing one of the pelts on the bed over her chest and letting herself fall back on her bed.

The blond handmaiden approached them with a peaceful smile and twinkling eyes, bowing respectfully to her before speaking.

“Lady Targaryen, your bath has been drawn.”

Daenerys sighed, content with the light air that surrounded her.

“Thank you…Doreah? Am I right?”

“Yes, my lady.” Doreah smiled and Dany could see that it pleased her that she knew her name. “I am Doreah of Lys.”

“Lys…” Dany smiled, gaze looking up at the dark canopy of her bed. “I enjoyed visiting the city, the one time I went there.”

“It is a beautiful city, my lady.” She sounded proud of her home.

Dany looked at her with a rueful smirk.

“It  _is_  your home.”

The woman chuckled, stepping forward and bending slightly down toward Dany.

“Not anymore.” She smiled, slyly and promising. “My home is my lady’s home.”

“No, Doreah,” Violet eyes met with the surprised orbs of the previous slave. “Your home is wherever  _your_ heart wishes it to be.”

 

•••

 

Since returning from her tour, Dany absolutely hated the small mirrors in Westeros. Having seen what the world had to offer, — Qohor had reflective surfaces that were as if a copy of the real world was put in front go her — nothing in Westeros seemed to be good enough.

Huffing in annoyance, she tried to better see herself upon the small reflective surface with very little success. Shaking her head, Dany left the bathing chamber. Her white skirt flowed over her legs elegantly as she strode into her bedchamber, her three handmaidens close on her heels. With eyes still locked on the small mirror in her grasp as she muttered, “Cousin Stannis better have imported those big mirrors from Qohor and put them all over my castle.” She knew she was acting spoilt, but if there was one thing Dany was proud of and enjoyed entirely too much, it was fashion and grooming. Which were increasingly difficult with such small mirrors.

“He did.”

She yelped, startled, and almost dropped the mirror, fumbling, but managing to save the piece from shattering on the stone floor. Sighing heavily in relief, she turned her gaze up to see Jon Snow standing beside a very amused Melisandre. Well, not standing.

Her mouth twitched, the desire to chuckle rising in her chest. Her dark prince in shining leather was poised and ready to dive forward to save her little mirror. He had one long leg drawn forward and almost bringing him to his other knee, his arms low and outstretched in front of him, prepared to catch the falling mirror. As if he could have reached it before it fell to its destruction by her feet.

“Oh,” She let her mouth twist in a sly smile. “That’s good.”

Jon blinked, his long face seemingly detached as he looked down at his ridiculous position before taking the full step forward, bringing him closer to her as her handmaidens walked to her chests, passing by him with their heads down giggling discreetly behind their hands. Still, as he approached her, she could see the faint pink painting his cheeks. It brought a fond smile to her lips.

“I am glad you think it so.” He nodded, offering his hand to her. She took it, squeezing his hand lightly, tilting her head sideways and smiling up at him.

“How so?”

Jon tucked her arm close around his, walking her back to Melisandre. Dany let the mirror in her hand fall to the bed as they passed, heading to the armchair by the hearth where the Red Woman sat with a wine glass in hand.

“It’s hard to tell,” He huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head as he looked at her with a slight smirk. “There are so many. It makes the inside of the castle look even larger.”

“Oh,” Violet eyes blinked, eyebrows rising and then furrowing as he guided her to the second unoccupied armchair. “Larger, you say?” She sat, putting her hands on top of her knees, nodding to Melisandre in greeting. “It is a mere trick of light, Jon. I meant, what does it look like? Is it pretty?” She amended, seeing the slight frown on his face.

“I can say that it is the single most magnificent building I’ve ever seen.” Dany smiled at him as he walked backwards, giving space to her handmaidens as they fixed her wool socks and boots. Jon rested his left forearm on the high shelf above the hearth in a relaxed pose. His hair was bounded in a bun, making his young and long face clear for her to see.

“Magnificent?” She encouraged him to continue, as her hands rose to pull her hair across one shoulder, starting to arrange a loose braid with the long strands of silver-gold.

“You will laugh at me.” She could see him bitting his lower lip from beneath her lashes. Dany hummed at him, continuing to braid her hair and letting him speak like Lord Stannis often did with her. “I’m not…good…” She could see his distress, how he played with his fingers and gazed intently at the ground. “With words.” He coughed, somewhat forced, before straightening himself and directing his eyes back at her.

A smirk from her and he scoffed, pushing himself away from the wall and offering his hand to her once more as she rose from the armchair, letting her skirts fall around her properly socked legs. Lady Melisandre watched all of it with intelligent eyes, putting the wine glass on the side table and standing up.

“Our home is beautiful, my lady.”

“It better be.” She giggled, gleeful of his brooding and far too serious face.

“You shall have your hands full with your lady wife, Lord Targaryen,” Melisandre spoke, stepping forward and nodding to him in respect. At least, Dany thought so.

A chill went down her spine, making goosebumps dance all over her skin just from hearing it.  _Lord Targaryen._  She had never really thought about it; about listening to another person being called by her own family name.

_Not alone._

“I can see it, lady…” Jon let her hand go while she let Irri help her put on a long red coat of thick red wool, clasped closed with a black brooch of her —  _their_  — sigil on her midriff.

“Melisandre.” She nodded to him once more, stepping around the armchair and heading towards the door. “Shall we? Breakfast awaits us.”

“We shall!” Dany clapped her hands, following the older woman quickly as Jon bowed awkwardly to the three handmaidens. As they stepped out of the room, they immediately faced two Baratheon guards, who bowed to them and followed behind the three.

They walked in silence, as Jon silently offered his arm to her and she accepted. Dany smiled beautifully, holding tight to him as they passed the first guards guarding the family living chambers.

Winterfell was a simple, yet hauntingly beautiful place. Walking beside her husband, Dany couldn’t stop moving her eyes around, taking in the sights with curious eyes. The dark corridors and warm walls soon gave out into an elevated platform open to the inner-courtyard, which they quickly traversed, walking towards the Great Hall, passing guests and servants alike as they approached the guests’ living quarters and then entered the direct open path to the Great Hall’s main entrance.

“We’re going through the longer path.” Jon leaned closer to her, his warm breath touching the side of her head and playing with the loose strands of hair there. “So you can better see the castle.”

“And how much there is to see, husband?” She smirked up at him, clutching his arm close to her, peering up at him through her lashes and watching him gulp slightly before turning his dark eyes back to their path. She copied him, triumphant that she had such an effect on him, that she could affect his quiet and broody self. Dany heard his amused huff beside her as they finally stopped before the doors of the Great Hall. One of the guards stepped ahead of them, opening the heavy wooden door, allowing them to enter as Jon looked at her with light, warm eyes.

“A great deal, my lady.”

The place was neither full nor empty when they entered. The tables spread evenly through the hall were each half-filled with nobility, knights and merchants. There were minor governors from distant lands mingling with their Essosi allies, jesting in other tongues while their consorts, with their beautiful foreign clothes that Dany itched for, observed their surroundings with enchanted awe or disgust. Wasterosi edge knights, lesser lords, ladies, and servants all bowed to them as they passed. Most watched them with cunning eyes ready to swallow them whole. They walked forward toward the dais that housed their hosts and main guests. The people seating on the tables changed from strangers with minimum importance to vipers and lions in disguise, merchants and sons and daughters of empires of both powerful estate and economy, all of them occupying the places closer to the Great House Stark, as was proper for their culture.

Dany honestly thought it all perfectly stupid, as little Arya often said in the few moments they had spent together. People should sit beside whoever they favoured as friends; it should certainly not matter if they were rich or of noble blood. Dany herself, when in Braavos, in the beautiful house cousin Stannis had gifted her with, had often sat with her servants in the kitchen, or even thrown feats with just her friends — be they princess and heirs to great merchants or street orphans or servants.

As they stopped in front of the raised table, where the Lord Stannis sat with his lady, and Lord Stark at his own wife’s left side, Jon bowed just as Dany curtsied, watching by the corner of her eye as Melisandre walked to sit in between the Lord Aurene Waters and Ser Terrence Celtigar, who sat together with Ser Davos, Lady Marya and their sons; Devan, little Stannis and Stefan. The latter was no more than a babe at his mother’s bosom while the first immediately got off his place and prepared to run to her, but was caught by his father and shushed by his fussing mother. It made Dany smile as she raised her eyes once more to meet her lord guardian and good-father.

Lord Stark’s serious visage softened and he nodded back to them in greeting. Lord Stannis only stared deeply into Jon’s blank face, before looking at her with a raised eyebrow. His dead-pan look a silent inquiry —  _should I allow him to live? Does he please you?_ — made a giggle build up on the back of her throat, and she beamed at him, trying to pass on what she must have certainly felt.

_I am happy._

It was enough to make him nod in understanding and relief, his shoulders suddenly seeming much less tense. She smiled more softly now and shook her head slightly in exasperation and love, not doubting for a moment that her cousin would raise hell for her and her happiness. Perhaps he could not have really killed Jon himself, should he had turned out to be of the same ilk as Joffrey, but he would have found a way for the boy-child to die horribly. Dany had absolutely no doubt of that.

Ramsey appeared by their side, bowing deeply and then guiding them up towards the dais. Their two chairs were put by the Lord Stark’s right once more. Dany felt the subtle flex of Jon’s arm beneath her hand, and she dared to squeeze his arm once in what she hoped could pass as comfort. The young man in front of them had a satisfied little smirk on his lips, those disturbingly clear eyes gleaming perversely at Jon. He met his guard’s gaze with stern orbs and raised eyebrows Dany felt were more of a challenge.

They walked around the table. Ramsey walked in front of them already and had put his hands on her chair, ready to pull it out for her to sit on, when Jon only but squeezed his shoulder to stop him. It marvelled her, how much in control Jon seemed to be, right in that moment. His personal guard — or was him a steward? Servant? Man-in-waiting? Why was he even here? Why was he waiting on them like a mere butler? — understood what he meant immediately, and danced gracefully around Jon as her husband advanced towards her chair without ever stopping; he was perfectly in-synch with the other Northern bastard. Jon pulled her chair out and she sat gracefully down, looking up at him with a pleased smile. He nodded just back as Ramsey pulled his chair for him to sit, which he did, while the former took a step back to loom behind them.

Dany turned around, leaning a bit into Jon so she could gaze behind the high back of the chair at their guard with curious eyes. She heard Jon’s soft sigh before she felt his fingers on her chin, turning her to face him.

“He is waiting for something.” She raised an eyebrow, puzzled, but nodded in acquiescence, turning back to the table. Her eyes soon roamed through the hall that was slowly but surely filling up as the guests left their beds.

One hesitatingly waving hand caught her attention and it didn’t take long before she saw the tall and broad figure of one of her dearest friends; the Lady Brienne of Tarth was sitting not very far from the Lord Renly Baratheon’s party. Her friend was dressed in an unflattering pink dress, which Dany secretly wept for. Brienne was beautiful and tall, and muscular. She needed less frivolity and more dark and bold colours to highlight her pale skin, hair and eyes. Something stern and sensual fitted her friend much more, but her family seemed to not understand that and still insisted in ridiculous dresses that weren’t made for her when she was not in her much-preferred armour.

Dany did not hesitate in waving back, smiling broadly at her. As expected, the lady warrior blushed so much she resembled a tomato, smiling back at her nonetheless. She turned back to her food with earnest and a radiant smile. Dany clasped her hands on her lap, a smile stuck to her face in such a way that made it ache in faint muscular pain. Dany ignored it. She was so perfectly happy.

“She is the only daughter of the Lord Tarth, isn’t she?” Dany turned to Jon, who looked at Brienne with his brooding face, masking his thoughts from her. “I heard she aims to be a knight.”

A chill went down her body, her smile becoming stiff as she slowly turned to face him. Jon’s face was as blank and broody as the two days before, eyes dark as he gazed over Brienne with a distinct curiosity. Something in her screamed in denial and cried in outrage as errant thoughts —  _is that disgust in your voice? Was I wrong? Are you truly a boy of such prejudices?_ — took over her young mind.

“Yes,” Her voice was distant to her ears, rolling out of her tongue in a lull. Her wide violet eyes watched her husband with clear attention. So focused, she could see each slight blemish on his face, pores and fine hairs and scars and… “Brienne is a dear friend.” To this, he turned his eyes to her, watching silently over her, calm as the sea before the storm. Listening. Waiting. “She  _will_  become a great warrior,” She watched closely as his eyebrows raised, surprise and deeper curiosity only, maybe some slight doubt and amusement as he turned back to look at the hunched over form of her friend. “We often sparred in camp, when we travelled here. She’s good with a broadsword. Strong.” She kept her watch over his long features, melancholic and brooding as he set his eyes on her friend. Jon looked like he was judging Brienne’s very soul so intensely he seemed to stare through her.

“Yes, I remember.” He turned back to her, slowly and nodding slightly. “Lord Renly’s party arrived right after yours, and Lady Brienne was presented as one of Lord Renly’s close friends. The Baratheon brothers seem close, for them to have travelled such a great distance together.” From his eyes alone, she could tell he did not believe in one word he had just said. She couldn’t understand him. He had said he wasn’t good with words, but he seemed quite the Southern with his silent question —  _what about the king?_ Despite the anger rising in her chest at the thought of the pig who sat on her brother’s throne, Dany smirked at him, shaking her head in tired amusement.

She reached for her goblet, full to the brim with orange juice. Taking a sip, she hummed in delight as the taste of the famous Dornish oranges touched her tongue.

“My…” She laughed silently, suddenly sad at the thought of her Lord Stannis not being  _her_  lord anymore. The boy sitting by her side was her lord now, and propriety said she should address him so. “The Lord Stannis met his brother’s entourage in the Riverlands’ borders with the North.” She smiled wryly, eyes turning to the crowd and failing to find both the Lord Renly and Ser Loras. It did not shock her when she noticed the romantic — forbidden _; and wasn’t that something that made her bristle in distaste? Didn’t it make her want to scream to the world to let them love as they would want too?_ — feelings for each other in the two weeks they travelled together before the Lord Stannis decided to go just that bit quicker so he wouldn’t have to deal with his younger brother’s shenanigans. “We parted when going through Moat Cailin, they stayed a day behind us, which became hours as we came closer to Winterfell.” She swirled the cup in her hand, lounging back in her chair as she took another sip from her juice. “Lord Renly is very fond of the sights and stopped to…” Feast, make tourneys, appreciate the sights, get away with his dear friend Ser Loras to brave the Northern wilds, the list goes on and on. “Appreciate them whenever he could.” Her smile fell and she met the heavy stare of her husband. “His Grace isn’t close to his brothers, nor are they to each other.” 

Jon, even though he said to not be good with words, understood her perfectly well, it seemed. He nodded, a faint frown on his face before he turned to the food displayed before them, choosing one plate to offer to her. She smiled brightly again, immediately falling into what she hoped would become a pattern of their own; exploring culinary cultures together, with quiet voices, soft looks, and surprised smiles of simple delight.

 

•••

 

They ate slowly, smiling and nodding to every man and woman that met their gaze. Robb Stark appeared, sitting beside her, and pulling her into conversation quickly. He inquired about Dragonstone, Lord Stannis, and whatever else came to mind. His sisters appeared not long after, sitting beside him. Sansa first, and then Arya.

They made a pretty picture, Dany thought. A family, breaking fast together, laughing and conversing. The table made it hard for her to speak with the other occupants, but it did nothing to stop her from answering little Arya’s questions and discussing fashion with pretty Sansa. Even Lady Catelyn, wary as she seemed to be, —  _Did you sleep well, my lady? You do not seem very healthy. It is nothing, child. Now, tell me, how did you come to learn so many languages?—_ approached her with conversation, leaning on the table and making every effort possible to not look at either Lord Stark or Lord Targaryen. Lady Stark entered into conversation with Lady Selyse as soon as Lord Eddard asked Dany of her long tour with Lord Stannis on the other continent. He looked at her with a soft look that made her smile brightly at him. Jon spoke with Ramsay, whispering so quietly with the young man behind him Dany could not discern what they spoke of. Robb interrupted a particularly harsh whisper of his, making her husband finally turn back to them, albeit he was obviously perturbed, glancing every so often at Lady Catelyn and scowling at Ramsay.

Dany watched it all, smiling brightly and talking with a light and clear voice that called for attention. She managed to distract the people sitting with her and even those that looked upon their table. She refused to have those vultures noticing her husband’s lack of subterfuge.

It was when Dany was telling Lord Stark and little Arya of her prolonged stay in Braavos, and of the beautiful manse her cousin Stannis had bought for her as a gift, that she noticed the same Maester of the previous night entering the Hall by a side door, close to the dais. Dany watched by the corner of her eye as the old man went straight to the Lady Catelyn. They talked in whispers, and Dany twisted her neck to meet her husband’s eyes, but he was already staring at the Lady Catelyn.

Frowning, Dany directed her violet orbs to that of Ramsay, who watched the Lady of the castle with a twist of his lips that absolutely chilled her. The young man slowly gripped the back of Jon’s chair, stepping forward slowly as if he didn’t want to bring attention to himself.

The Maester leaned between Lady Stark and her lord, whispering, before stepping back. Dany saw a flash of paper in the lady’s hands. A few moments later, Catelyn’s gasp was heard by those sitting near her. Even Sansa leaned over, curious over mother’s uncharacteristic display.

“Catelyn, what is it?” Lord Stark asked. His hand carefully placed on her shoulder.

“It’s…Lysa.” _Lysa? Lysa Arryn. The Lord Hand’s wife? She was a Tully. Of course! Sister to Catelyn!_ They had a joint marriage in the Rebellion if Dany remembered her lessons right. “She is congratulating…Lord Targaryen and his wife,” Dany could hear the disgust in her words. Her voice tuning harsh when calling out their title. She searched for her husband’s hand on the chair’s arm, gripping it, and laced their fingers. Jon looked at their hands with wide eyes, blinking in faint shock before looking up and meeting her gaze. She smiled at him, amused by his surprise. “She also says her husband’s heir has reached his nameday. Robert Arryn is his name.”

“Oh,” Dany gasped softly, bringing attention to her. She cursed herself internally for not keeping her mouth shut. Still, she smiled at them, meeting the lady’s wary gaze with a calm one of her own. “I’m glad for Lady Arryn. It seems coming to King’s Landing finally gave her child the strength to survive past his first year.”

“So,” The lady scowled at the paper in her hands, shaking it slightly in her direction. “My sister’s children are common knowledge in King’s Landing, but news of his birth only reaches me a year later.” 

_Oh, no._  Dany gulped, profoundly embarrassed for probably causing a feud between sisters. Now, it was Jon’s time to squeeze her hand in comfort, which he didn’t hesitate in doing. Licking her lips, she shook her head, taking a quick sip of juice before directing her words, once more, to the lady of the house.  _Tread carefully, Daenerys._

“Oh, no, my lady.” She chose to ignore Lord Stark’s low reprimand to the older woman, continuing with all the wits she could assemble in such short notice. “Lady Arryn was in seclusion for a long time and very few people knew of her child. I was…friends with many of the servants, though, and knew of him.” She smiled, eyes wide and chin lowered demurely, gripping tightly to her husband’s hand.

He was the only one she could count on in that moment, with Lord Stannis sitting on the opposite end of the table and unable to aid her.

“It is her first living child as you may know…” Dany glanced cautiously at her, choosing her words with care and making sure to appear as serene and meek as possible. At the lady’s nod, she moved on. “And the Lady Lysa only but wanted to be sure of his survival. Her spirits surely are lifted with so many good news, my lady.” She smiled more truly, for Dany did not reproach others their happiness. 

“Many?” Catelyn tilted her head, looking at her husband and slowly lifting her eyes so she could gaze at…Ramsay? Confused, but refusing to show. Dany nodded.

“Yes! I’m sure you’ve heard, but your childhood companion, Lord Baelish, has moved to King’s Landing as the master of coin a few years ago.” Dany did not particularly care for Littlefinger. “Lady Arryn was delighted to have a friendly face near her when she returned to court from her home, in the Eyre.” She smiled sweetly, pondering why Jon’s hand was suddenly gripping her so tightly.

The Lady Catelyn’s face twitched weirdly and she took a deep breath, facing away from them and staring intently at the letter in her hands.

“Your friends, mother?” Sansa spoke, delighted to know more of Lady Catelyn. Dany smiled softly at the girl, admiring her obvious love for her lady mother. “In King’s Landing?” Strangely, Lady Stark seemed to be more absorbed in the letter in her hands, not answering her child. Lord Stark looked worryingly at his lady before turning to answer his eldest daughter.

“Your aunt and an old friend, Sansa.” He answered soothingly to his child.

“Yes, m’lady,” They turned to gaze up at Ramsay, who stared at Sansa with glee. He smiled widely at her, showing his teeth. His clear eyes, almost ice, turned directly at the Lady Stark, who suddenly went awfully still. Dany looked at her husband, who locked his jaw as he glared at the cup in his hand. “It’s truly aspiring that a man of such humble origins could have reached such a position! And your mother and aunt…well,” His voice reminded Dany of blood. It confused her how a voice could be compared to such morbid things, but it was clear how…disturbing Ramsay was. “They were very good friends to such a man.”

Jon stood quickly from his chair, pushing it away with a suddenness that made Ramsay step back and raise his hands as if he were surrounding himself. Dany and the others jumped at the abruptness and she looked at the pair — Jon glaring furiously at Ramsay over his shoulder as the young man only smirked back, defiance shining in his eyes and the curl of his mouth — with open suspicion.

“Forgive me,” Jon spoke, low and threateningly, never breaking eye contact with his manservant. “I must go now.” Jon turned back to her, bowing and bringing her hand to his mouth. His leather clothes creaked, and he stared at her with glaring focus. Turning on his heel, he walked briskly to the small door behind the dais, only raising his hand to snatch the troublesome bastard by the crook of his neck, forcing his head down as they walked out of the hall.

Dany had yet to see such a side of her husband. She had felt the sudden violence and danger in him when Lady Catelyn first spoke of the letter in her hands. How his whole form had tensed at the words exchanged, exploding outwards when Ramsay first put his fill to the conversation. She bit her lower lip, mind numb for a moment as she gazed at the form of Lady Catelyn, scowling furiously at the door they had both closed behind them. As if she was hoping it would burst into flames, and then set fire to Dany’s husband and personal guard.

“Do not worry too much, Lady Targaryen.” Robb Stark’s grave tone took her attention from his mother, directing violet orbs to meet his bright blue ones. “It’s always like this since Ramsay entered out home.” He shook his head, sighing tiredly before taking a great gulp from his cup. “That one searches for trouble. And Jon is always the one to clean up after him.” He smirked at her, as tired as he seemed, he was also amused. “No doubt, it was Ramsay that caused whatever conflict my mother now feels. It is nothing new.” She directed her gaze to the lady, who was on the receiving end of the Lord Stark’s concerned whispers.

“You may call me by my given name, Lord Robb.” She nodded gracefully before returning to the subject matter. “Then why won’t Lord Stark punish him? Why won’t Lady Stark do it?”

“At first, yes, punishment and humiliation were immediate. But then…” He frowned, deep auburn brows pushing together into a frown as his gaze turned frigid with silent fury, a sneer on his lips turning his face ugly. It spoke of a terrible memory. “Then Jon started to truly vouch for him.” He took a sip from his cup, side-eyeing her with those cold eyes. “After a hunting accident, it was Jon who took charge of his punishments.”

Eyes widening in surprise, her neck twisted in the direction they had walked out. Pursing her lips, Dany quickly got up to her feet. She curtsied to Lord Robb and then Lord Stark, walking quickly out of the hall. Opening the door and stepping out, looking around and trying to figure out where they had headed to. She let the heavy wooden door swing closed behind her, gathering her skirts and turning to the guard stationed at the door. He was already pointing down the corridor, and she smiled at him in thanks. Dany walked quickly in the direction he indicated and as she turned on a curve, she found herself away from prying eyes and pulled her skirts up further; making sure no one was looking as she hastened her steps into a slow run. Alert to every sound, she ran and ran, until she happened into a courtyard full of servants and guests alike. Two figures were going up a set of stairs leading to an upper walkway, and she amazingly could identify Jon’s half-hidden figure. Fixing herself properly, she crossed the courtyard, nodding in greeting to those she passed, but not halting her steps, making sure to pass on the image that she was a woman on a mission and not to be interrupted.

Ascending the steps, she could hear their distant voices as she turned into the entrance to an upper level of the keep, instead of taking the main walkway. She followed them, steps as silent as if she walked on air, every level of her body in perfect attention. They did not notice her presence, and they wouldn’t. Not until she wanted them to.

They walked for a few more minutes until both of them approached one of the small windows facing the inner courtyard. Dany stepped into the shadows, deciding to observe them first, before revealing her presence.

Jon didn’t just stop. He threw Ramsay against the wall beside the small window with a mighty shove, his fist connecting with the wall beside his manservant's face the instant his body collided with the wall. He snarled at the Northern bastard with a fury that shook her to her utmost core.

“What. Have. You.  _Done_?!” Each word was uttered in cold rage, and she could taste blood, danger, and violence, but not fear — from either of them. It struck her breathless.

“Oh?” Ramsay smiled lazily at the teenage boy snarling murder at him, almost proud as he gazed down at the underage lord. “I only upped the stakes a little bit in our favour. Nothing more…” He leaned forward, faces so close their noses might touch, a manic smile on his lips that made her eyes widen further. The face of insanity, she thought. “…M’lord.”

“You upped the stakes by messing around with the Hand’s  _wife_?” Jon hissed back, shoving the older boy into the wall once more before he retreated, one hand rising to press against his mouth, and finally turned his back on Ramsay. He pivoted, glaring back at the older boy and lifting one arm in exasperation and pointing one finger at him with the other. “You wish us dead before we even go back home?”

“Is it home already?” One brow lifted, Ramsay’s hand rose to massage the back of his head and then his neck as Jon tilted his own to the side. She could see the shadows on his face shifting as he clenched his jaw.

“It has been for a long time and you know it,” Jon told the man, walking up to the window and gripping the windowsill, leaning against the stone. Ramsay leaned further against the wall, almost lounging as he stared at Jon out of the corner of his eye, crossing his arms in front of him.

“Yes, it has.” The silence that followed was suffocating. It hung over their heads and made Dany colour slightly, feeling as if she had intruded into something intimate. It also made her heart twist. Here they were; two bastards with nothing besides what her punishment gave them. It saddened her and made her feel unclean. These two knew Queenscrown with the back of their hands. They knew every nook and crook. They had lived there, seen it before it even rose as a mighty fortress, while she had been travelling around the world with her cousin.

“What made you do this, Ramsay?” She almost didn’t understand the words, he uttered them so quietly. “You said you spoke with Catelyn last night.” Jon turned around, looking very young with the early morning light shining upon his face. “What did you say?” He frowned, correcting his posture and letting go of the windowsill, facing the older man before him with the grace of a true king. “What did you make her think?”

“I may…” The young man licked his lips, smirking slightly, as he stood up correctly, no longer supporting himself on the wall, and turning his back to her, facing his master…“Have implied that her sister and old friend Littlefinger are…very close.” He shrugged as if it was something he couldn’t have kept to himself. “And also, that son of hers came around conveniently at the same time as they… re-acquainted.”

“ _What?!_ ” She stepped into the light, no longer hidden by the curve of the wall. Ramsay twisted around so quickly she thought he would fall from dizziness. The knife thrown at her was quickly diverted with a turn of her head, not ever stopping her from walking to them in quick steps. Vaguely, she saw Jon quickly throw himself at Ramsay, pulling the arm he had used to throw the knife down, eyes wide in panic. Ramsay looked at her with bulging eyes that would have been hilarious in any other situation. She stopped in front of them, Ramsay frozen in his throwing stance with Jon clumsily draped over him, pulling his favoured arm down and gasping for air as if he had run rounds around the castle.

She stomped her foot and planted her fists on her hips, narrowing her eyes at them.

“Explain yourselves!”

All was silent for a few seconds before Jon let go of Ramsay, pushing away so he could step closer to her. She could see him gulping slightly as he put both hands on her cheeks, making her blink in surprise as he turned her one way and then another.  It made her smile softly at him, despite the righteous fury in her chest. She gripped both his wrists, and gathered them close to her chest, smiling softly up at him.

“I’m fine, my lord.” Then she scowled at him, grip tightening around them so fiercely he cringed in pain. No one should dare say she wasn’t  _strong_. “Now,” she stepped forward, making him back away as she let go of his wrists, her gaze alternating between the sullen boy she married and the wild beast that served him. “How did you come to such a…conclusion, when you were in the North for most of your life?” She shook her head, frowning heavily at them. “Why were you invested in Lysa Arryn’s life?”

“I am just getting to know some people, my lady.” Ramsay finally seemed to get out of his shock, curtsying to her with an imaginary skirt in a gesture that made her lips twitch in amusement. “Milord is a very curious person who wishes to make the best of friends all around the Realm!” Jon pushed his shoulder, scowl pulling at his full lips.

“No, my lady, that is not the reason,” His eyebrow twitched. “ _At all._ ”

“You wound me, m’lord!” Ramsay gasped dramatically, one hand delicately resting against his chest.

“Keep wounded then, Ramsay,” Ramsay snickered, walking forward and slowly around her. She followed him with her eyes as he went to his thrown knife, bending down and reaching for it. Jon’s hand on her shoulder brought her attention back to him, meeting his careful gaze with an inquiring one of her own. Her eyebrows raised in challenge.

“Then? I’m waiting.” She clasped her hands in front of her, lifting one chin, and narrowing her eyes at him. Watching as he pursed his lips and sighed deeply. Jon closed his eyes and brought a hand up to massage his brow.

“Ramsay-”

“That’s me!” She did not look back at the interruption, but Jon did, glaring furiously before sighing again and meeting her eyes with a solemn look that made him all the more similar to his father.

“ _Ramsay,_ as I was saying,” He looked pointedly behind her. He was such a petulant child. They both were actually. “Was only telling me what his…friends…told him.” He frowned, setting his jaw and biting his lip. It would not do for him to try to sweeten it up for her. She wanted the truth.

“Like my  _friends_  did in King’s Landing?”  She cocked her head to the side, smiling genially at him. Jon narrowed his gaze at her, chuckling softly and shaking his head, as Ramsay returned to his side.

“Yes, but, not  _just_  in King’s Landing. In the Red Keep, the Eyre. The streets, the slums and the manses. Ramsay has lots of friends with lots of things to tell.” He said with a clipped voice. Crossing his arms, he looked at Ramsay with something she couldn’t distinguish.

“ _Good_  friends, mind you.” He twirled the knife in his hand, pointing it at her and ignoring Jon when the boy hastily took the knife away from him, flourishing his hand upwards with a roll of his eyes. “And Lady Arryn is not very…subtle in her affections.” Dany shook her head, confused still with his reasons to raise such…chaos.

“And why would you care to inform the Lady Catelyn about…” She gulped, looking down at the ground before looking at them through her lashes. “About…”

“Her sister’s bastard?” Jon huffed at Ramsay’s response, glaring up at the taller male. “What? Don’t be prudish, Lord Jon  _Snow._ ”

“Oi! Focus!” She took a step forward, stepping between him and Ramsay. “Why did you go to her?”

“Well,” He gripped his jaw, caressing it with rough fingers as he gazed at the low ceiling. “That Littlefinger…he’s the bad sort.” He looked seriously at her, no mockery in his eyes or lips. “We have one brothel up in the town and he’s already sent someone there.” Her chest tightened, awakening something in her at the thought of…her  _town_. It’s small, insignificant to all but…it was hers.  _Theirs_ , she thought, violet orbs turning to Jon’s cool features. “Of course,” He smirked at Jon, who looked back with a dark gaze. “I’ve got the…perpetrator.” He snickered and Jon sneered. His face twisting as if he was in pain, meeting her gaze. Dany remembered how Ramsay had called himself master interrogator then and felt sickness rising up in her throat. “Afterwards, it was just a matter of looking the man up and…getting to know him, so to say.” He tilted his head, empty smile and cruel eyes staring at her. “Lysa Arryn was a surprise.” He frowned, directing his gaze back to Jon. “An unwelcome one, because it leads to you, my lord.”

“A very weak connection, Ramsay,” Jon spoke faintly, turning his back to them and facing the window. “There was no reason for you to tell Catelyn Stark of it, I had only asked you to figure out what in the seven hells that man was doing lurking around our home!”

“Where is the fun in it, then, if we can’t dig some dark little secrets?”

“The fun?” She spat out, anger and fear mixing inside of her at the thought of tangling themselves in such mess.  _The Arryn heir, a bastard, all of it uncovered by the band of bastards._  “This is serious! It’s dangerous! Lady Stark was much more than perturbed or only worried for her sister’s safety! Something has rattled her so much she was…” She gasped, gulping heavily and turning away from them, suddenly feeling faint. “That’s not all you said.” She shook her head, slowly turning to look at him. “Ramsay…what did you say?”

His smile was slow and sinister. Behind him, over his shoulder, she could see Jon stubbornly looking out of the window with his jaw clenched with such a force it looked as if he was in great pain before he spoke with a clipping tone.

“You better not have made a mess out of this.” He sneered, looking out of the window to something they couldn’t see. “ _Again_.”

“I may have hinted that great loves never die,” He turned, gazing at Jon. “That Littlefinger was to Lysa Arryn what Brandon Stark was to her.” Jon turned to look at him, his long face absolutely icy in the early light. “In all senses.”

It did not take one second for her to grasp what he meant, making her gasp loudly and look at Jon with wide eyes. He was frowning, not understanding his servant, but met her gaze all the same. And she only had to utter a name for him to understand.

“ _Robb_ …”

His eyes widened, his whole body shook as he turned his face towards the older bastard.

“ARE YOU MAD?!” He advanced on Ramsay, pushing the young man back with both hands and brandishing the knife he had taken from him against his pale neck. Dany stepped between them, making him halt in his place even as he glared daggers at Ramsay, knife still drawn. “I know you like your crazy messy games! But what does Robb even have to do with  _Littlefinger_?”

Dany nodded furiously, mind whirling at what must have been the most absurd logic she has ever beheld. She could not hope — neither did she want to — understand how  _in the seven hells_  Ramsay Snow’s mind worked.

“It isn’t even possible!” Dany spoke, making the calculations and faintly remembering the dates of Brandon Stark’s death and the Tully-Stark marriage.

“ _Are you mad?!_ ” They both hissed out at the chuckling form of their servant.

“You’re awfully in-synch.” He snickered, pointer finger gesturing to them both lazily. “The sex was that good?”

Both she and Jon sputtered, taking one step away from the other as their face burned red with shame.

“You—You have no place in what we do! Now, explain yourself!” She stepped forward, poking his chest with a finger.

“Well, I  _really_  don’t like the Lady Stark, and I’m sure Lord Jon would agree with my assessment of her.”

“Not enough to play with lies, you idiot.” Jon spat out, still seething at the boy’s dare.

“And, honestly, I know,” He gripped her hand with both of his, smiling innocently at her. She sneered back at him, pulling her hands from his slimy grasp and clasping them in front of her. “It’s impossible, and really stupid, but…she’s such a…” She saw hate, hate so pure it scared her for a moment until she remembered she felt something similar to many people. “Such a bitch!” Her eyes widened and she glanced back at Jon, who seemed to not be perturbed by the way his manservant spoke of the lady of the house. “I wanted to see her humiliated by lies, the same way she does to us.” His laughter fell, leaving behind only blankness. “Yes, I may have done quite a lot to her and maybe I deserved being whipped as much as I was,” Then his eyes turned to Jon, something raw in them that made her feel…uncertain. “But Lord Jon certainly didn’t deserve as much punishment as I did in my short time here.” He stepped back, suddenly the smiling crazy Ramsay she saw most of the time. “So, I took the opportunity to…shake her a little bit from her high horse.”

 “Still…what you said is dangerous,” Dany whispered, eyes never leaving his face after such a confession.

“And a lie.” He rolled his eyes as if he had not accused the wife of a Lord Paramount —  _two wives!_  — Of adultery. “A lie she will not dare to utter to anyone, even her husband. Besides…” He splayed his hands, eyes snapping from her face to Jon’s. “It was  _implied._  I did not throw in her face that her dear Robb Stark was Robb Snow. I just hinted at her relationship with the boy’s dead uncle.” Both she and Jon cringed heavily, utterly perturbed by him.

“Still, what is it with this Littlefinger?” She asked, tired of it all. Beside her, Jon loomed silently, glaring darkly at Ramsay.

“As I say, he is like a threat, like Varys I would say.”

“So he has his own brand of networking,” Jon said, frowning thoughtfully.

“Networking?”

“Yes,” It was Jon who answered, straitening himself and stepping around her so he stood between her and Ramsay, twisting the knife around his hands and offering it back to him, handle first. “Information gathering, Varys has his little birds-”

“The children.” She nodded, one finger curling beneath her chin as she gazed thoughtfully at the ground.

“Children?” Ramsay breathed out, tucking the knife somewhere in his vest. “He uses children?!” He gasped, shaking his head as he gazed at her in surprise.

“Yes, I’ve seen them once or twice. They were the only ones who played with me in the capital when I was little.”

“Disgusting.”

“Genius!”

Both males turned to stare at each other. Jon frowning heavily at the awe and appreciation in Ramsay’s voice regarding the spider’s methods.

“We could really invest in-”

“We will not use children to spy for us!” Jon hissed. Sighing, he shook his head at Ramsay before turning to Dany, “And Lord Baelish, it seems, has his own method of gathering intelligence, which was what I had tasked Ramsay to investigate.” He raised his brows at Ramsay. “We needed to know which agents he would use, and at that time we didn’t know who the spies answered to.”

“And the lead took me to a long strip of brothels, most owned by Lord Petyr Baelish,” Here he looked at them, expectantly. “Which means the spies are…”

“ _Whores_.” Jon and she answered, eyes widening and then turning to look at each other in surprise, exchanging small smiles.

“Yes, the sex  _must_  be good.”

Anger rose in her chest, and she responded to it in the quickest way possible — with a sudden burst of violence.

“Ouch!” Ramsay yelped, clutching the arm she had just punched. An unladylike habit she had acquired with rowdy Seaworth boys. If Jon found it repulsive or degradative, she hissed in her mind, ignoring the sudden fear and nervousness coming through her indignation, he would have to get used to it anyway. “She punched me!”

“Yes.” She pursed her lips, straightening her back and fixing the sleeves of her red coat, clasping her hands in front of her and lifting her chin as regally as she could. “I did.” Dany kept her gaze glued to the absurdly clear eyes of the older boy, who stared at her with wide orbs and an open mouth. She turned to Jon, who stared at her with an intensity that brought forth memories of their night together and the early morn when they had awakened in each other’s arms.

“She punched me…” Ramsay murmured once more like he had a slow mind. He frowned, twisting around to look at her and smiling slowly and widely, turning back to Jon with wiggling eyebrows. “I like her, m’lord.” He singsonged in a high-pitched voice that made her cringe. Jon frowned at him, shaking his head in plain confusion and faint disgust. He turned back to her, and a small smirk graced his lips, softening his frown and warming his gaze.

“So do I.” His word made her blush like crazy, her heart stutter and lips grin involuntarily before she forced her face into a serious mask, trying, and failing, to conceal how affected she was by his words.

“Anyhow, telling Lady Stark was far too risky and far too…” She looked around, fearing she would see someone who could creep on them and listen to their dangerous and absolutely scandal-worthy words. She leaned forward, whispering sharply. “We’re speaking of the legitimacy of a Great House’s heir!”

“I had no part in it!” Jon stepped forward, bending forward and hissing silently, looking at their surroundings the same way she had, paranoid as suddenly as she was. Ramsay rolled his disturbing eyes, stepping forward as well and bending down slightly, planting his hands on his knees and speaking softly and mockingly.

“I may be wrong, m’lord, but I’m pretty sure you are my master and lord, the one who pays me, thus,” He snapped his tongued, straightening and pointing a finger at Jon, shaking it slightly. “You are definitely part of it.” He turned to her, leaning in and whispering. “I am specialized in the acquisition of blackmail and gossip through the means of violence, m’lady, and my lord definitively has found use in my abilities.”

“Ramsay!” Jon hissed, grabbing his collar and pulling him away from her, shoving his face close to hiss. By now, the three of them were huddling together in a small circle, like small children planning pranks.

“What?” The older boy raised his hands, exasperated. “It’s true!”

Without her wanting it, a smile tugged at her lips. But, alas, it was not the time for jests and games. She raised her hands, grabbing both of their hairs tightly and banged their heads against each other.

“Quiet, you two!” She hissed, ignoring their yelps and groans. They both clutched their heads, Jon looked at her with exasperated eyes while Ramsay glared furiously. “We are not simple children playing small games!” She took a deep breath, centring herself before looking back at them with steel in her eyes. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

“Oh,” Ramsay muttered, sneering at her. “So it’s  _we_ , now.”

“Yes.” The surety in her voice made them both blink, gazing down at her tiny form. In that moment, she felt truly powerful. A lady, a leader.

There was a threat to her House and her people. She would do her best to fight it.

“Ramsay, you will  _get to_   _know_ our guests, especially those coming from King’s Landing.” She made sure he was listening to her, not just indulging her as his lord’s wife. Soon, she thought, he would recognize her for her own self-worth. “Lord Baelish did not come to our wedding, but I’m sure someone else did for him…” She snapped her fingers, pointing at the cretin with one of them. “ Actually, find out who each person represents. In a few days, we’ll meet with each of them after Jon and I are properly introduced to Queenscrown plans.  _Officially_.” She gazed pointedly at Jon. “We should know who we’re dealing with.”

“Pay attention to Lady Catelyn too. Put your boys on her at all times.” Dany blinked in confusion. Was that what Ramsay called his spies? “Something had gotten beneath her skin. Maybe it was only your…stupid…lies,” He sneered at Ramsay’s sheepish beam. “But I want to be sure to be prepared for whatever backlash it may result in, and what she will do with the information you gave her so we may answer in kind, should we need to.” The older boy nodded, snapping his tongue.

“Beyond official representatives, there may be someone more invisible. A servant perhaps, maybe he or she, has already headed to a brothel in Winter Town if their method is the same one as the other one used to go to Queenscrown.” Ramsay mused, looking seriously at Jon before facing her, eyes searching. “Should I kill them?” His eyes were on her, but she knew his words were for Jon, who immediately hissed in displeasure.

She felt cold, her lips went dry and she had no doubt she had paled at least ten shades.

Killing…it was not something new to her. Dany had seen men die many times in her travels. By sickness or by someone’s will. Dany had seen death. She knew that in the world they lived in, death was inescapable, especially to those who lead. In some corner of her head, she knew of that one day she would need the strength to both kill and order someone killed.

She just had hoped for it to not be so soon.

“Ramsay! Don-” She lifted her hand, urging him to stop as she gazed intently at the ground. Jon stopped. She knew he wanted to protect her, wanted her to think that  _he_  wouldn’t do that to someone. But, in the short time she came to know Jon, she discovered that he  _knew_  what was necessary to rule. He had adapted from a little shy boy to a young man who knew how to best protect his people. Jon knew the sacrifices he had to do, for the good of his people.

Dany suspected he had known for a long time.

It made her sad. Her husband, did he know the flavour of childhood? Or was it taken from him as suddenly as her? In which was did he lose that sweet ignorance?

“It would be for the best…” She gulped, master interrogator ringing in her head as she met the older boy’s cold look. It was the truest expression of his real character she had seen. “If we know what they had to hide.”

“Daenerys…” Ignoring Jon’s faint whisper, she kept her eyes glued to the assessing gaze of Ramsay Snow.

Finally, —  _finally —_ he nodded, with what she fancied was respect in his eyes.

“Dany?” She met Jon’s gaze, so warm and worried and…She smiled at him, faint but true.

“I’ve lived under Cersei Lannister’s roof, Jon.” She turned, meeting their… _assassin’s_  gaze with a stubborn one of her own. “I know the kind of power we need to wield.” 

 

•••

 

Parting from them after that — how do you walk away from those whom you just plotted someone’s torture and death with? — was…hard.

Ramsay was quick to go, muttering under his breath about what he should do as he went back in the direction of the courtyard. Jon had accompanied her back to her bedchambers, where her three handmaidens waited for her. He kissed her softly before departing, leaving her heart beating quickly and the sweetest smile gracing her lips for the longest time even after his departure. Dany left the room after giving orders to the girls — _Irri, Jhiqui and Doreah; hers to protect_ — to sort the gifts given to them by name. Dany wanted to know what were the offers given and who had offered them.

What followed was a day filled with easy conversation with her new family. Most with the Lady Stark and her daughters, no business discussions would occur for two days still. Lady Melisandre and Lady Marya had walked with her as they watched the Seaworth children play with the littlest Starks, laugher and sunlight surrounding them in peace. Little Arya had jumped between a fierce battle between the brave Ser Brandon and proud Ser Devan, making both of them scream in fright as she triumphed over them both for a glorious moment before she had to bolt out of the place. She left a scandalized Septa shrilling behind.

Dany really wanted to befriend the little rascal, for little Arya truly reminded her of herself at that age.

Luncheon came with Jon searching her out and guiding Dany to an airy solar that belonged to the Lady Sansa. The sweet girl had insisted she ate with them and her siblings. Jon, though Sansa was obviously uncertain of his company, indulged his little sister with soft eyes, making sure Arya, with her petulant pout and crossed arms, behaved correctly. Robb was a delight to be with, making jokes and clapping Jon on the back, telling her everything about their adventures when they were little. Brandon — who begged her to call him Bran, because they were family, the small gesture made her heart swell and she beamed happily at the young boy in agreement — kept asking her about the South, about her visits to all of the Nine Free Cities.

“I grew up in the East more than in our homelands,  _Ser_  Bran,” She told them, sitting between Arya and Bran, little Rickon on her lap as she met the eyes of the Stark children looking at her in wonder. “After the Greyjoy Rebellion, I travelled through Essos and even stopped at Sunspear, only returning after my tenth name day.” She looked down at the drowsy boy in her grasp, smiling at him softly and pinching his little nose, making him fall into a cute fit of giggles. “I lived in King’s Landing with my cousin for a short while, as his duty as master of ships obliges him,” She did not elaborate on  _that_ , and it endeared her more to the Northern children when they did not push for more, lulled by her stories in a way that begged for no interruptions. “We lived there for a turn of the moon. But soon we returned home to Dragonstone, and by the year’s end, we sailed to Braavos.”

“You lived there then? In Braavos?” Arya’s big grey eyes shone as did her sister’s blue ones, though she tried to hide it behind a childish mask of a lady’s seriousness.

“Yes. For two years,” She giggled, leaning into her personal space and whispering loudly as if they were conspirators, giddy in the presence of such innocence and curiosity. “And I finally visited the last two Free Cities, for I often went to Lorath, for I adore their velvet and admire their humble ways.” It brought a gasp from Sansa, for once breaking her composure and letting the child in her shine through her attempt at being a courtly woman.

“Velvet?” She bit her lips, leaning forward. “I’ve heard of it! Did you bring some?” The excitement in her voice made Dany beam, nodding eagerly.

“I have, yes,” Her violet eyes turned, meeting the calm gaze of her husband. “I could not have left my prized possessions in an empty room or house on the other side of the world, not when I’m finally going to a home of my very own.”

Jon smiled at her words.

“And you’ll have much more, my lady,” He spoke, reddening when his brother’s gaze turned to him and Sansa turned around to look at him with wide and shining eyes. “I mean,” He met her eyes in earnest. “You shall want for nothing.”

Their lunch ended up taking most of the afternoon, the Stark children welcoming her into their lives with an ease that left her in awe. They were welcoming even to Devan and Steffon when Lady Marya had called on her, their cries to play with their Princess becoming too demanding. She had tried to go out of the room to tend to them when Robb called them in, an amused smile on his lips while Jon simply nodded, getting up and guiding the children inside. Even the Greyjoy hostage had entered their little playdate at some point.

They only left that little solar when it was time for dinner, and by then Dany felt tired and radiant, not even caring when Ramsay pulled Jon aside so they could plot something together. She would know about it sooner or later and, for that small moment, she just wanted to bask in the happiness and lightness of it all.

Entering the Great Hall, she took time to speak with her friends and allies, and meet with strangers that came from all around Westeros and beyond. From the table most distant in the hall to the table housing Lord Stark himself, she spoke with everyone she could. Dany embraced Lord Aurene and Ser Terrence, her two childhood shadows, who half-jokingly threatened to make Jon disappear should he prove ungallant, making her body shake with laughter at their silly jests. The doomed princess danced with many before enjoying the familiar faces of the emissaries from Dorne.

Nymeria Sand approached her like the seductress she was, stopping Dany from accepting a quick dance with Ser Garlan Tyrell. Her younger sister, Sarella, smiled genially at her and Dany welcomed them both with tight embraces.

“Lady of Queenscrown, hmm?” Nym drawled out, eyes raking over her form. Dany chuckled, clearly remembering a time when all the young princess did was complain about how she did not know where she would live.

“Yes!” She leaned forward, whispering quietly. “And it is amazing, I’ve seen the drawings!” She wiggled her brows, robbing a genuine laugh from the Sand Snake as she embraced Sarella. The Lady knew anything she said would be reported back to Dorne, but she also knew these two enough to share such small things. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t know more in a few days.

“I’m sad though, Daenerys,” Sarella spoke, ebony hands gripping her elbows as Dany did the same to hers. “We won’t ever go to Myr again, or travel to the Summer Isles in my mother’s ship as we planned!” Dany nodded, sad for a moment until she remembered that her husband was nothing but kind and, maybe he would even agree to such an adventure. They could brave the world together, and the thought warmed her heart.

“But we have my castle to explore for a long time,” She chose to answer instead, not wishing to put an uncertain hope in her friend’s heart. Her eyes moved from her exotic face, with features from both Dorne and the Summer Isles, to her older friend. “You will accompany us, surely?”

“Oh,” Nym lowered her gaze, swirling the wine cup in her hand. “Is there somewhere to accompany you already, my dear friend?”

Dany had only smiled in response, laughing and dancing away from them, swept away by the charismatic Lord Renly Baratheon, falling in his quick dancing steps as the feast raged around them.

“Are you happy, dear Daenerys?” Lord Renly asked laughingly, his blue eyes shining beautifully in the low light. Dany answered with a beam, one hand holding her skirts as they pressed their palms together and twirled around each other.

“Oh, cousin of mine,” They curtsied and then stepped forward, once more dancing in each other’s arms, not ever bumping into the other pairs around them. “More than I ever thought I would be!"

As soon as the quick-paced song ended, Dany led herself deeper into the crowd. She met Lady Maege Mormont, dressed in patched ringmail and with a short, stout appearance that complemented her quick wit. The Lady of Bear Island complimented Jon, surprisingly.

“Jon’s a good lad,” She said, patting her cheek with a surprisingly soft look. It made Dany realize that for all the stubbornness and how she poised herself, Lady Mormont was a woman too, and knew very well the life they could have in Westeros should their chosen husband be…boorish. “You’re in good hands, lassie.”

Dany decided to ask Jon more about the family at a later date. She wished to know the story of the House Mormont — their neighbours, she realized — and Jon Snow of House Targaryen.

A servant passed by her as she was conversing animatedly with a merchant prince’s wife and his concubine when one of the more blusterous small knights tripped the poor boy. She hastily ended the conversation, walking briskly to the commotion of knights laughing at the boy and congratulating the horrible man who tripped him. Arriving, she helped the boy from the ground making the knights stop in their tracks, laughter dying as they watched the Lady of House Targaryen help a servant boy. She turned a stern gaze to them after checking to see that the boy was unharmed.

“You will retire yourselves early this night,” They were not intimidated, however, staring at her with barely concealed jeers and contempt. Daenerys lifted her chin, looking at them with a disdainful look that had often graced the Queen’s golden features. “And you will refrain from harming the servants.” She narrowed her eyes at them, ignoring the nervousness bubbling deep in her chest at their sneering faces.

“Is the lady clear,  _Sers_?” A soft and low man’s voice came from behind her. When the men’s eyes met whoever had spoken, they all paled in fear, pupils shrinking to tiny dots as they nodded hastily. The leader of their group, the one who pushed the boy, got on his feet in an instant, bowing to the soft-spoken man behind Dany.

“Of course, Lord Bolton. Lady Targaryen.” They all bowed deeply before guiding themselves off. The boy beside her trembled slightly in what she supposed was fear and she sent him away back to his work, turning to face the Lord of the Dreadfort.

His pale moon-eyes were the first thing that registered in her mind. They were even paler than Ramsay’s, and Dany thought that maybe they were related. She curtsied for him as he bowed back in response, face slack in deep serenity. He seemed untouchable and unflappable.

“Thank you, Lord Bolton,” She smiled demurely. “They seemed like the stubborn kind who would undoubtedly have done some terrible thing in their drunken state.”

Smiling placidly, his moon eyes glinting, he nodded back. His features were ordinary and soft, beardless and thin-lipped. He opened his mouth to speak when they were interrupted by Ramsay and — Robb?!

“Daenerys! There you are,” The Stark heir smiled widely at her, one hand clasping her shoulder and trying to turn her away from Lord Bolton. Of course, she didn’t let him manhandle her so easily. Dany planted her feet firmly, fixing her form in such a way that he couldn’t move her without brute force — feet parted, elbows slightly open — and looked at Ramsay trying to subtly approach Lord Bolton.

“Robb, it’s a pleasure to see you well,” She addressed him without ever taking her eyes away from the silent confrontation between the bastard and the lord. “Ramsay,” She called, forcing him to look away from the older man who kept a slight smile on his lips. “Where’s my husband?”

“Jon?” He blinked a few times like he was trying to pull himself out of a trance and putting his mind back to work. “He’s entertaining Lady Sansa.” He smiled, quick and meaningless. Dany saw how relaxed and quiet he was, none of that restless energy he had in all of their previous encounters.

“That’s good then,” They turned to Lord Roose, who smiled placatingly at her. “I’ve heard Lady Sansa isn’t fond of bastards.” Her sword hand twitched and she clasped them both in front of her. “Like mother, like daughter I would say, but she seems to be warming up to our new Lord of Queenscrown.”

“Lady Sansa is dancing with her brother, Lord Targaryen,” Robb spoke, clutching tightly to her shoulder.

“Of course, forgive me” He smiled, moon eyes gazing at them before he bowed, saying his farewells and disappearing into the crowd. They watched him go, silent for a minute before she stepped out of the Stark’s grasp and pinched his ear, bringing him down so she could better look at him.

“What was that about?” She asked coldly, ignoring his complaints of pain.

“You are awfully violent, my lady,” Ramsay said with a mocking voice.

“I do…ouch!” Robb started, interrupted by a final pinch of her sharp nails before she let him go, his hand rising to his ear, rubbing it while he frowned at her small form. “I do, for once, agree with you, Ramsay.”

“You tried to steal me away from an important conversation with a fellow Northern lord,” She scowled at them.

“Well,” Robb said, putting his hands on her shoulders and rubbing them in what he thought was a comforting gesture. “That’s not a good lord to start a conversation with.” Stupid boys trying to save her from the big bad lords; Gods, was this to be her life now? “No offence.” He turned towards Ramsay, who lifted an eyebrow at him with a small smirk on his lips.

“None taken.”

“What do you mean?” Dany asked, brows furrowing in puzzlement.

“Oh, he’s my father,” Ramsay spoke, sweeping his hand on his vest and rolling his eyes, a lazy drawl in his voice that spoke of utter boredom.

“What?” She startled, blinking rapidly before squinting at him, tilting her head pensively. They did resemble each other. “Oh, forget it.” She shook her head, crossing her arms. “I meant; why isn’t he a ‘good lord’?”

“Ah,” Robb blinked. “That.”

“Yes,” She answered, not containing her sarcasm. “ _That_.”

“He’s plotting something.” Ramsay shook his head, squinting in the direction his father had disappeared to. “He’s always plotting something.”

“Like father like son, I suppose.” His head swung towards her, eyebrows high on his forehead in a way that made her fall over herself laughing, pulling Robb away and dancing to the happy tune the bard started playing.

Robb laughed with her, dancing as gracefully as a lord should. They passed an awkward Jon trying his best to match an eager Sansa. She smiled brightly when she saw them. Arya lurked around their forms, trying to dance alone between them until that same Septa from earlier appeared, crying out her name and making her, again, bolt out of the dancing crowd.

Around them, laugher bloomed loudly at the little girl’s daring. Even Jon shook quietly in silent amusement while still in Sansa’s small arms. The song ended, and Dany twirled towards Jon, giggling with Sansa as they curtsied to each other and exchanged partners, preventing the boys from bolting out of the dancing area along with Arya.

“You shall dance with me, Jon Targaryen.” She said, looking up at him with the biggest smile possible, uncaring of ladylike courtesies. His lips formed a small smile, eyes softening as he put an arm around her waist.

“As you wish, my lady.”

The bard sang a soulful song, slow and romantic. The lyrics spoke of a deep love that fought and survived through all obstacles, crawling its way into the light with all it had. The steps to that ballad were slow and simple, but Jon was nervous with it still. He kept his eyes cast down, keeping attention to their feet and being careful not to step on her tiny toes covered only by leather boots. He made her heart ache with longing and affection, his hand curled delicately to her body, his palm rough against her own.

It was when they twirled around their joined hands in a slow circle, hands flat against each other’s palm with their arms intertwined, that she lifted her other arm to curl a finger beneath his chin, directing his attentive gaze to her. She smiled at him, secretively and small, shy and gleeful.

He smiled back.

For the rest of their time in that feast, Jon made sure he was the only person she danced with.

 

•••

 

The Lord of Queenscrown had chosen to stay back at the feast when she asked him if he wished to retire. His eyes were trained on his manservant, talking quietly with one of the many cupbearers present — the one he spoke with, she was sure, was the one serving Ser Kevan Lannister — as he hastily guided her to Lady Melisandre, ordering some raggedy looking boys to escort them to her rooms.

Silly, of course. She could easily gut anyone who tried to touch her, and Lady Melisandre had her strange magic. So, they were very much safe just the two of them. But dear Jon had yet to know that or, maybe, he chose to forgo the fact at all, she thought, remembering Ramsay Snow and his self-entitled ‘master of whispers’.

The raggedy boys accompanied them to the first entrance leading to the family chambers, stopping and bowing before quickly vanishing into the castle’s shadows. Melisandre didn’t waste time, walking at an unfaltering pace towards Dany’s room while Dany stayed back for a few moments, blinking in the direction the boys had disappeared into.

“My lady,” Dany looked back, meeting her friend’s red gaze and hurrying after her. They walked in silence until they stopped in front of the red door leading to her chamber. As she reached for the handle, the vibrant of the wood finally caught her eye, making her hesitate.

Looking closely — as close as she could with only the firelight in the dark corridor — she could see the way the paint was chipped in some places. Instead of clean work, the paint was all over the surface, uneven and even going over the edge of the metal pieces in the wood. Some places were a bit patchy, and there were other places where the paint was thin.

Dany had travelled through various places and had loved all of their arts. She had even painted many of Ser Davos wood toys, drawn murals in various places. She had gone to Myr and to all the Nine Free Cities of Essos; there, she had studied their diverse arts closely, becoming a patron of whoever she thought talented enough to do something for her castle while learning as much as she could.

Looking at the red door, she could recognize what was obviously a novice’s attempt. The painting work was obviously done by an amateur. The door was not made out of any kind of noble redwood nor was it painted by any kind of professional. It had been painted hastily and clumsily.

Why though? Why would someone paint the door to her rooms in the colour that…

_Cousin, I want to paint the doors back home in red._

And the realization that came to her after noticing made her stomach drop.

“Daenerys?” Melisandre’s voice reached her ears and brought a sharp gasp out of her. She closed her eyes tightly for a second, trying to bury her thoughts deep into her mind before opening the door, not answering to the Priestess.

Doreah was standing among the various gifts they had received, a thin clutch of parchment in hand along with a piece of charcoal. Her cool eyes drifted through the containment of a pinkish chest as Jhiqui and Irri fumbled about amongst various pieces of textile. The hearth was already blazing and a nightshift was spread on the bed. Melisandre closed the door behind her as the handmaidens noticed their entrance, each of them curtsying and intoning her title in greeting.

“My lady,” Doreah raised her head to meet Dany’s eyes, moving them low not a moment later. “We’ve been sorting your presents and I’ve compiled a list for you with the name of those who gave the items to you, as you asked.”

“You may look into my eyes, Doreah, and thank you.” Dany smiled at her, eyes going to Irri and Jhiqui. “You all must look me in the eyes, we are to be friends,” She walked forward just as Melisandre drifted to the small armchairs in front of the hearth. “At least, I hope so!” They responded with slight smiles.

“Would you like to bath, Khaleesi?” Jhiqui asked with a closed-lipped smile on her mouth that showed kindness. Dany only nodded in response, prompting the strong girl to turn to Doreah, who appeared to be the designed leader of the trio, Dany noted, amused. They discussed something quietly before the woman directed her and Irri to the bathing chamber.

“Why do they call me that?” Dany asked, walking to the other armchair. The memory of sitting on Jon’s lap, no clothing covering their bodies as they embraced flashed in her mind. It brought colour to her cheeks and a secret smile on her full lips.

“They see Lord Targaryen as Khal,” Melisandre drawled out, setting herself deeper into the chair with a soft sigh of relief and rolling her neck towards her. “And you, his Khaleesi.”

“And we are part of your khalasar now, my lady,” Doreah spoke, standing beside her and giving the parchment she had in her hands to Dany, who put it on the side table between the armchairs.

“Jon is no horselord, though.”

“But that is the only lord they shall acknowledge,” Melisandre rebuked, her elbow resting on the arm of the chair as she supported her chin on her palm. “It is a strong title, Daenerys, do not deny it because of small details.”

“Besides, my lady,” Doreah kneeled beside her, eyes glinting and fair hair turning orange in the firelight. “Khal, lord or king, it all leads to the same duty;” She captured her hands between hers, gripping tightly. “Leadership.” They exchanged quick grins before Doreah tugged her on her feet. “Now, come, let us take these clothes off you so you may be clean.”

Melisandre observed them quietly as Doreah went about unclasping her red coat and taking the garment off.

“Your husband will think you strange.”

Dany turned to her friend, frowning in confusion at the amused little smirk on her lips as Doreah slowly freed her long hair from the side braid Dany had done hours past.

“Your bathing habits, dear,” Melisandre continued, unfurling from the armchair and standing up gracefully. She turned around and walked towards the door, stopping to look at them over her shoulder. “You still bath as often as a maiden of the South and East, dear Daenerys.” And then she opened the door and left, leaving behind a puzzled Daenerys and an amused handmaiden.

“Will Jon be unhappy with me being clean, Doreah?” Suddenly insecure, Dany turned wide eyes to the Lysene woman. It made Dany’s absurdly confused as to why Jon would ever not want her to be clean.

“No, my lady, that is certainly not what Lady Melisandre meant.” Doreah unfastened the laces of her gown, sliding the white sleeves down her arms and letting it fall to the floor. Dany stepped over it with care to not soil the white piece with the sole of her boots. “In the North, it is simply uncommon to have such frequent baths as you are surely used to, due to the colder weather.”

“Oh,” She said, with dawning comprehension. “Then, should I bath less for him?” The thought did not please her, and she let it show in the clear scowl and pout of her lips, her voice flat and decidedly irked. “I do so enjoy a bath.”

Doreah smiled softly, kneeling so she could take Dany’s boots. She took the first one off with ease, while the second she needed to force off with a grunt, making Dany stumble slightly and laugh. The woman laughed quietly along with her, hesitatingly at first and then letting the amusement show on her features when Dany did nothing to reproach her.

“Well,” She started to roll down one of Dany’s thick socks. “If he  _is_  a good husband, he will certainly listen to your wishes.” Dany hummed, her mind immediately going to all of the little kindnesses Jon had bestowed upon her. “If he’s  _not_ , however,” Dany lifted her leg, foot arched as Doreah took the sock, looking up at her with sly eyes. “You can soften him up.”

“Soften him up?” Dany blinked, lowering her leg so she could lift the other and let the handmaiden take off the remaining sock.

“Yes,” Doreah stood with socks in hand, moving to put them on the bed beside Dany’s shift. “With the deadliest weapon a woman can possess.”

“Beauty and wits, you say?” Dany lifted her nose into the air, pouting heavily. “I prefer my sword!” Doreah guffawed, trying to hide her wide smile behind her hands and making Dany grin in triumph. She enjoyed making others laugh.

“All good choices, my lady,” Doreah guided her into the bathing chamber, where Irri was putting some oils and soap into the bathtub, making the warm water inside start to form bubbles as Jhiqui stirred it with one hand. Doreah turned to her, hands sliding the flimsy sleeves of her underclothing from her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, revealing her naked body. “But I spoke of your body.”

“My body?” She stepped out of the clothing pooled on the floor, accepting Irri’s hand as she guided her into the copper bathtub.

“A man’s pleasure, my lady,” Doreah kneeled beside the bathtub as Dany lowered herself into the water. “Give him pleasure and he’ll give you whatever you desire, allow you to have as many baths you wish.” Dany tilted her head, sliding forward and pulling her legs close to her chest, resting her cheek on her knees while she looked at Doreah as Jhiqui started to wash her back.

“What about when…” She coughed, facing away from her oldest handmaiden and planting her chin between her joined knees. Her cheeks reddened. “What about a woman’s pleasure?” She could feel Irri’s hand stopping and could see from the corner of her eye that even Jhiqui’s  curvy frame stopped to turn toward her. Doreah remained strangely silent. “If a man gives a woman her pleasure, does it mean she shall do his bidding?” Only the water answered her, sloshing slightly with the echoes of her previous movements. She turned to face the older woman again, this time pulling her silver tresses from her back and gathering them to the side of her neck.

The Lysene woman looked at her with wide eyes, silent and watchful. Her hands gripped the bathtub’s edge with a tight grip, her fair hair was tied in a severe bun low on her head and the dress she wore was heavy and dark, very Northern.

“Why do you ask that, my lady?” Doreah’s eyes shone with something unholy, as she spoke with a very soft voice. She looked like a faithless man who had found god, Dany thought. Like she had a rare and impossible gem in hands.

“Well,” She looked away, a smile on her lips as she circled her legs with her arms. “If it is so, then I shall do Jon’s bidding, for he gives me nothing but the most pleasurable of touches.” Her sigh was one of lust and longing, wanting to be with her husband as soon as she could. Dany longed to be back in his embrace, to feel his clumsy yet pleasurable attention. She looked back at Doreah, an idea forming in her head. “You should teach me about a man’s pleasure, so I may repay my lord husband in kind.”

A distant knock interrupted them, making Doreah snap her head around, getting on her feet and walking back into the bedchamber. Jhiqui ran to the bathing chamber’s door, peeking over to see whoever called on her Lady so late at night.

“It is the Khal, Khaleesi.” She turned to her, eyes gentle as she asked, “Should Doreah tell him to go?” Blinking, Dany’s opened her mouth, but nothing came out of it. She did not want Jon to go, she wanted him to stay with her. But that was too forward, wasn’t it? She bit her lip and prepared to say yes to Jhiqui when Irri put a finger over her lips, leaning around her back so she could smile mischievously at the Lady.

“You have nothing the Khal have not seen, Khaleesi.”

Well, that was certainly true.

Dany looked back at a Jhiqui, an excited and sly grin on her face and ready to tell her lady-in-waiting to allow her husband’s entrance, but the girl was already nodding in amused understanding before walking out of the bathing chamber. Dany turned wide eyes to Irri, suddenly panicked.

Irri, the little menace she was, only giggled and got up to her feet, letting the rag in her hands float in the water as she walked out. She almost bumped into Jon, but stopped at the last moment, curtsying and then pushing him into the room before he had any chance to speak or see that Dany was, in fact, naked in a bathtub in the middle of the small side-chamber. The handmaiden closed the door behind her, stopping the lord from trying to follow her out of the chamber.

Dany had the inkling that she and her handmaidens would get along quite well.

Jon turned around then, eyes finally finding her small form hidden only by the water and the soap forming bubbles on its surface. The way his breath hitched and his whole body seemed to…vibrate; to snap at absolute attention towards her, brought a distinct feminine pride to her, making her lift her chin proudly even as her face coloured red as quickly as his.

“I…I’ll…” He muttered, jaw opening and closing as if he was in a trance, his body turning to the door even though his eyes remained glued to hers.

“No,” Though she called for his presence in giddy playfulness, Dany felt nothing but the same silent reverence her husband showed. In that moment, she knew their connection ran deep and would go deeper still as they better knew themselves. “Stay.”

He nodded, stepping forward cautiously and stopping midway to her. Daenerys smiled softly at him, letting herself fall back against the bathtub’s wall and letting her legs extend until her toes touched the other side of the tub. She extended one arm towards him, supported by the tub’s edge as she crooked her finger at him in silent invitation, failing to contain a smile and biting on her lower lip. It called him forward as if he was under a spell, his fingers intertwining with hers as he crouched low beside the bathtub.

“Was it you?” It was her who broke the heavy silence that settled over them. She whispered her question as if there were thousands more into the chamber with them, all eager to rob them from their intimacies.

“Me?” Jon never turned his eyes away from her, their gazes connected so intensely she wouldn’t mind passing the rest of their time like this; silent and peaceful in a warm chamber, their hands weaved together and souls blurring into one.

“The red door.” She licked her dry lips, letting her head fall against the tub's edge. Jon let go of her hand for a moment, exchanging hands so he could put his right hand behind her head, protecting it from the copper edge and making her lips twitch in exasperated fondness as his left hand held her right one again. “The house Lord Stannis bought me had a red door, and it was there I made my happiest memories.” Shireen’s laugh, Stannis’ voice, Ser Davos’ wooden toys, Master Syrio’s lessons and Lady Melisandre’s fingers combing through her hair; that’s what that house was for her. She swallowed dryly, lifting her free arm to take his hand from behind her head towards her lips, grazing her open mouth against his knuckles. She closed her eyes with a frown, scared that he would see how vulnerable she was in that moment. “When I left,” She whispered softly. “When I left, I told him I wanted to paint all of my castle’s doors red.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His thumb stroked her right hand as his left one caressed her lips, unfurling his fingers to cup her cheek. She opened her eyes. Jon’s grey orbs looked at her like she was something precious, like he knew all of her secrets. He pitied her even, she could see, but beyond that, there was…there was a tenderness and promise that he wouldn’t let her ever feel insecure.

“You know what happened in King’s Landing, don’t you?” She whispered, not managing to keep the tears forming in her eyes. “You know what made me move to Braavos for so long, don’t you?” She shook her head, a single tear spilling that she angrily swatted away with the back of one hand. “I needn’t tell you that last night.” She smiled bitterly at him. “Ramsay already had.” She laughed bitterly and he withdrew his hand from her cheek, letting go of her hand and letting himself fall on the floor, no longer crouched. Jon moved so he was facing her head on, letting his arm rest along the tub’s edge as he leaned towards her, his long legs sprawled on the floor.

“When Ramsay told me you had tried to gain Prince Joffrey’s favour, tried to convince him to marry you, I hated you and I hated him.” He was blunt, direct, and it cut more deeply than anything else at the same time that it eased something within her. “He wasn’t my friend then and wouldn’t be for a long time. He knew all these random things about everything and then…One day he taunted me and said that my betrothed hated me so much she tried to seduce the Prince and called me a savage bastard to all who would hear.” That was what people said then, she remembered clearly. That was what people said now and would keep saying even after her death. “Told me you were punished accordingly and all. Do you know what I thought when I discovered Joffrey Baratheon had thrown you at the king’s feet and told you to kneel and kiss his robes?” Dany scooted away from him, arms rising and clutching her own shoulders in a mockery of an embrace. “I thought you deserved it.”

“I did.” She whispered so quietly he almost hadn’t heard her. When he turned to her, she met his stare with a steely one of her own. “I did.”

And she did.

Though Dany had lived in King’s Landing for almost an entire year prior to traveling to Essos, in a tour that was more for Shireen’s survival and Dany’s health than anything else, after they had arrived in Westeros, having docked by the Stormlands and going North to King’s Landing, they settled in that hellhole for another month. In that sole month, Prince Joffrey had laid a pretty little trap for her that ended up leaving her broken by the stag’s antlers and bloody by the lion’s maw. She had dishonoured her cousin’s warnings and lessons, thinking less of Jon and letting those sick words of Lannisters and a Usurper king sink into her mind.

She deserved every punishment laid on her. She learnt from her mistakes and accepted them, though she would forever regret having said such horrible things about Jon when she hadn't even known him.

She deserved it all.

“No, you didn’t.”

Daenerys jumped back, blinking and scowling at him. She turned on the tub, water sloshing out of it as she slid closer to him, clutching at his arm resting on the edge.

“How can you say that?” She hissed at him. “I was a clueless child who let herself be led by simple prejudice and, and greed! I thought myself better than you! I resented you for ruining my family when it was actually the very man I tried to be in good graces with!” Her hands grasped at the collar of his vest, bringing his face a breath away from hers as she kneeled in the tub, rising above him. Tears streamed down her face now as she searched his face for something — hate, content, agreement; she found none. — while he gazed back at her with an unsettling serenity. “You should hate me!” She shook him, sobbing now. “I dragged your name to the ground! All because I just wanted…”

“Because you wanted to be closer to your family.” Dany gasped, staring down at him, uncaring of the nudity she exposed without the protection of the tub’s water. “Because you wanted to be a princess like your mother once was, you wanted to go to the home your family had for generations, because you were just a lost little girl who had returned from a life of wonders traveling the world when a cruel little prince made you believe you could find love with him.” Jon’s big hands closed around hers, easing them away from his collar as he kneeled, his face level with hers. She stared at him with wide, wide eyes of pure and unadulterated shock. “And you did not deserve to be stripped bare before the king, or to have been punished by the very prince who seduced you with promises of marriages.”

“What…” That was not what people said of her. Westeros did not share truths, only lies and rumours, and what Jon told her sounded awfully like the truth.

“Ramsay eventually became my friend. And when he did…” He cupped her jaw, a sad smile gracing his lips. “He told me what his friends in the Red Keep really told him.” His forehead rested against hers as he touched his open mouth to hers, nuzzling her before drawing back. “And his friends, those servants that roamed in the shadows, they cried with the little girl who had her world shattered, who cried for days in her chambers with no one but a lonesome cousin to comfort her.” Dany clutched his hands tightly. Jon was her anchor now, the thing that kept her afloat and protected her from the darkness beneath.

She had planned to confront him about the spies Ramsay no doubt had kept on her, and then Jon went and blew everything away while rebuilding her anew.

“You spent only but another month in that awful place before returning to Dragonstone, and by then you weren’t the same,” His thumbs massaged her skin, trying, and failing completely, to stop the steady flow of tears running down her face. “You didn’t make suggestions or demand that Lord Stannis arrange something for you in Queenscrown, you didn’t suggest different materials or artisans or whatever other new building technics you wanted implemented into the castle.” He huffed, frowning amused at her and making her laugh between her sobs. “My lord father got worried and asked Lord Stannis what really happened, and when he knew…” He sighed deeply, shaking his head before biting his lip. “It was father who suggested Lord Stannis take you on another voyage.”

And she broke down. She cried, she cried so much she thought she would lose all water in her body and start crying blood instead. Jon clutched her to himself, uncaring of the water wetting his leather clothes or of her snot and tears. Jon held her, the only barrier between them being his soaked clothes and the bathtub edge. His hands never stopped rubbing her back or caressing her head.

“Why…why…” She asked him, unsure of what she meant by it.

“I had years to think on this. Years of…” He sagged forward, leaning into her as much as she did into him. “Years of pondering, of hating myself and you and myself and…” His nose brushed her neck, burying himself in her as she did into him. “T’was an endless cycle. And now that I met you,” He chuckled, and she did too. Dany understood perfectly well what he meant. “I see that it was somewhat pointless,” He drew back, hands sweeping her tears once more. “You are not that naive little girl who wanted to be a princess anymore, Dany” He smirked. “Meeting you only showed me what my father kept trying to put into my head; you have a kind heart.” She bit her lip, closing her eyes tightly and letting her head fall forward until they bumped foreheads. Jon gulped slightly, pressing his head against her and holding one of her hands to his lips. “You know, in his last letter, Lord Stannis told me of your red doors,” He nuzzled her and she did too, her small nose bumping lightly with his bigger one and making her giggle. “I had two months to find the proper paint for the wood  _and_  learn how to properly paint doors, failing miserably, of course. But don’t worry, the ones at home I hired people who actually knew what they were doing.”

And she kissed him. She kissed him open mouthed and with her tongue as she cried and laughed and grasped at him with abandon. Daenerys was a complete mess, but it didn’t matter, of course, Jon kissed her with double the fervour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, before anything else; y'all better flood my inbox with reviews. This is a 23k word chapter. No joke.
> 
> There's a lot going on in this chapter, but first I will address the things I changed in previous chapters: Dany's age and sword.
> 
> George is a great writer, but damn if Westeros couldn't do with some good precise dating system. At first, Jon was going to be one year older than Dany until I noticed that it was impossible. Jon had to be older for only a few months, and as such, Dany needed to be almost fourteen in my story for this all to work well enough. Basically, they marry in the second month of 295AC, which is the same month as Jon's fourteenth birthday. Dany's birthday is in the fifth month, so she's still thirteen. A smallsword is simply not the kind of sword I want for her, I decided after finally properly searching a sword fighting style using smallswords. I changed it to simply 'sword', so it could be simpler to explain at a later date.
> 
> Now, about that first scene; Queenscrown is a planned city, built around a castle. Yeah, not a full city, let us say. I consulted with an urban geography student, and she actually said that my idea was somewhat believable, in the conditions I put this all in. First fact: Ned Stark wanted to populate the Gift, but the wildling raids stopped him from doing that. That's an awful obstacle, and he wouldn't just build a castle for Jon to live in a castle without something surrounding it for protection, and they couldn't populate the Gift if the population wasn't secure. Then -- a wall. The 'city' is actually the planned blueprint of districts and patches of lands organized in an almost grid system that leads to the castle at the very centre. Then I thought about how the hell they would deal with the food - they had to feed a lotta people in the future - so they needed to create a giant glasshouse. But what about just changing a little bit of the environment AKA change the climate on the premises? So, I thought about the concept of heat islands (the heat an urban area emits) and soil, the water supply would be endless with the snow and the mountain springs (that lake water had to have some source). Then I thought about Roman houses, where the floors were actually raised, and then the ground beneath would only have to be altered to lead the water somewhere. What about city waste? What about fuel for the furnaces? And the fertile soil for actual plating? That's what we gonna see in future chapters. And yeah, this all was just me putting a lot of ideas without knowing if it'd work. This is a fantasy, you guys, work with me here.
> 
> Now, we need to talk about Ramsay. As you have seen in this chapter, he takes his things too fat and poor Jon, unfortunately, is already used to it though he doesn't appreciate it one bit. With this little game of Ramsay, I established one very important thing that you can't forget: Ramsay Snow lies, a lot. He lies to entertain himself because physical torture isn't something he can do freely because of Jon, so he resorts to mind games. The problem is, he is starting to get very good at this games, and starting to get very reckless with them. Jon, above all else, taught him patience and compromise. That's something kinda dangerous.
> 
> Now, as my beta put it, Political Savvy Jon, or, like I like to call him, I'm Done With Ramsay's Shit Jon, is someone who has learned the hard way to actually understand the way Ramsay works. Jon and Ramsay...they have a story. They know each other like no one else, and that has a price on each of them. Because of that, Jon knows how to dance around some things already. He's wary of words and pretty smiles because he ain't getting that shit from anyone else anymore - Ramsay is enough. Ramsay was to Jon what King's Landing was to Dany; their loss of innocence and childhood.
> 
> Dany's travels to Essos seem to be all over the place, but I swear they're not lol I actually have mapped out the routes and everything. The first tour she mentioned -- for Shireen's survival and her own health -- it was connected to Shireen's birth and greyscale. Meaning that Stannis couldn't have her in the same environment as Shireen without risking Dany's health, but he had to search for a cure for his daughter. He couldn't have Dany in KL for long too, so, instead of sending missives around the world, they go search for a cure themselves travelling Essos. Of course, there's more to it, but we'll get there.
> 
> Braavos, well, you guys get Braavos, don't ya?
> 
> As for the Sand Snakes...the Dorne Plot™ is beginning to show >:D
> 
> Now, if any of ya want further information about Queenscrown, I already started writing some metas(?) to post on Tumblr, with references and drawings and shit. You can ask me about it too. (Shoutout to Tumblr folks who actually saw my post about this chapter!)
> 
> Now, PLEASE REVIEW. OMG I WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS THIIIIIIIIIINK!!!! Don't be shy ^.~
> 
> ~Mari


	5. Davos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis gives his orders and Melisandre gives her religious riddles, Davos just tries to do his job while trying not to shove the woman off of a cliff. Davos sees things he never wished to see. The Targaryens are finally aware of what they are facing and need to arm themselves with the best of weapons; information. Also, Essos seems to have a fairly respectable amount of those flying lizard eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, go to my Tumblr and read the damn meta I made about Queenscrown. And to be clear, nothing I post there is completely canon in CoB until I post it in the story itself, okay? Like, I may change my mind about how many entrances there are to QC, or about how it looks. My Tumblr: http://kazemari.tumblr.com/search/the+court+of+bastards
> 
> (I'm even putting the link with the tag for CoB stuff so, check it out. yeah?)
> 
> I've changed Jon's birthday again 'cause I can. He's older than Dany now by a year. But his birthday is in the 11th month of GoT's year so he's still fourteen, okay? We're in the second month of year 295 still so everything is good and dandy.
> 
> Also, had some serious troubles with Davos, Stannis and Melisandre. I got really confused before finally settling with these dynamics that I present you. I had to watch the entirety of Stannis' fate on YT, and depend on wiki 'cause my books aren't with me now so...Meh, I liked and I think it's suitable enough. Gimme your thoughts! As always, I'll explain some things in a really long note at the end.
> 
> Enjoy!

Davos Seaworth had settled happily as a landed knight. His family, though lowborn, prospered quickly and happily. He knew that maybe they wouldn’t ever be as close to the great Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone as they were if it wasn’t for the voyage the nobleman had decided to embark in search of a cure to his infant daughter’s illness, taking his young and healthy ward with him to protect her from infection. The landed knight and his sons answered to their lord, of course, guiding them through the Stormlands and out on the sea, docking on Pentos, marching to Norvos and then Qohor, down the river until Volantis, on open sea to Lys, and then, to Sunspear. They visited the Stepstones, went from Tyrosh till Myr with Dornish bastards, a prince and a princess as companions. Davos and his eldest sons, still not captains of their own ships then, accompanied the Lord Stannis and Lady Daenerys through the Stormlands once more and said their farewells as the Lord and his ward set their path to the capital.

When he got wind of what happened _there_ , Davos did not hesitate — not when that little girl’s big and otherworldly purple eyes flashed through his mind, her young voice hesitatingly asking for his and his wife’s shelter from young nightmares — and boarded upon his ship, setting sail to Dragonstone only but three months after returning home.

There was once a time Stannis would have done everything for his king and brother, Davos remembered clearly. It was strange, how clear the memory was in his mind; he’d thought the various conflicts and arguments the man had with his brother — a great lot of them ending with both short of unleashing their great fury upon their own blood — but it was actually the quiet despair his lord had went through for long days, his loyalty of duty clashing against the one of his heart as he watched silently over his young ward, that was vividly clear in his mind. Clearer still, was the face and words his lord had shouted to all winds when Davos dared to ask for what he thought of his brother’s reaction to a young girl’s humiliation.

_Damn him and his wretched spawn should he ever lay another hand on her!_

With those words in mind, Davos truly wasn’t surprised when his lord left quite clear to the Starks that should he had to choose between Daenerys and his own brother, well, he’d probably tell King Robert to fuck himself and a thousand whores before turning his back on the Baratheon king.

The crown on the black stag’s neck of Stannis’ banner was painted red for a reason, after all.

“She spent the day with the Stark children, my lord,” Melisandre drawled out, walking around the room with slow steps, red eyes roaming through the dark chamber as Stannis sat back on his chair behind a small working desk, eyes narrowed on the table as his fingers rested over his thin lips. “In the feast,” She chuckled, shaking her head fondly as stopped by the small window behind Stannis. “She was her usual self. Fleeting between guests and dancing over the room like a butterfly.”

“Butterfly,” Stannis scoffed, his eyes meeting Davos’. “Butterflies have short lives and roam aimlessly.” He leaned forward, supporting his elbows on the table and lacing his hands together. “That girl is a dragon choosing her next meal, prodding old bones and flying untouchable in the skies.”

Davos smiled, nodding in agreement. It was certainly an accurate description of the little princess. Daenerys had spoken with strangers and allies alike, cunning and enchanting, unafraid as she met their challenges head-on. Davos had no doubt that the feast and many others to come were nothing to her, who had survived the worst of King’s Landing.

“At least in her head, she is.” The man directed his gaze to him, commanding attention without one word falling from his lips. “What were the reactions to her little speech?” He lifted a brow, showing no other emotion. As solemn as ever.

Davos’ lips twitched before he answered, “Most of our foreign allies commend her for her words, but others are puzzled over what she meant,” They thought her a fool, but a charismatic _rich_ fool. “Our close allies are amused, if not a bit wary, and the Westerosi are waiting for the king’s order for her demise so they can flock over Lord Targaryen and his riches.” 

“ _His_ riches,” Stannis scoffed, shaking his head. “That boy thinks all he has belongs to Daenerys and no other. Some sort of honourable code he abides by,” Stannis could complain about Jon Snow all he wanted, Davos knew he admired the boy and was grateful for his kind personality. Stannis cared too much for Daenerys to not be grateful for a good husband for her. “He would never allow harm come to her because of what was given to them both.”

“And he did suggest a way to amend for Daenerys’ harsh words, didn’t he?” Melisandre spoke, her eyes glued on the night’s horizon, as they often were. “To send missives for second and third sons, bastard sons or any who a little Westerosi lord would rather be away from his lands and plans.”

“The nobodies of the seven realms,” Davos spoke, clear amusement in his words. “It would be fitting, for Lady Targaryen and her bastard husband to be surrounded by those as hated as they are.”

“And useful,” Stannis agreed, nodding his head as he pulled a piece of parchment from his vest, offering it to Davos. Puzzled, he stepped forward and took the letter from his lord’s hands. “Send this to Cressen and make sure you do it quietly.”

“Well,” Davos put the letter in his own robes, nodding to his Lord's words. “The reclusive do tend to band together.”

“They will be greater than any other,” Davos sighed as both he and Stannis turned to the Red Woman. Again, she would start with her usual talk of chosen ones and greatness and fire and ice children. Davos really believed that she would give anything for her chosen one, Daenerys. He thanked the gods — old, new or only one — that dear Dany didn’t give one shit about the Divine's work in their lives. “Our great lord has shown me.”

“Your fire lord can show you whatever, it does not change our lives,” Stannis spoke sternly, not at all impressed with the Priestess. “We need to deal with this and do it quickly before we head North to Queenscrown and our…” He pursed his lips. “Guests disband around the world, throwing words to the wind in a way we cannot control.” He pointed at Davos, eyes pressing onto the woman. “Davos will send word to Cressen and the Ravens will fly over the realm with _our_ side of Daenerys’ speech.” He then looked at him, nodding to the door. “Then, soon, we will have the people we need in Queenscrown and let Daenerys’ words pass as an invite to the desperate lives roaming around the Seven Kingdoms, stopping my foolish brother from ever thinking anything…unsightly.” He clasped his hands behind his back, turning away from them in clear dismissal.

Davos bowed to the lord, eyes going to Melisandre as she walked towards the door with all the grace of a dancer. He opened the door for them, letting her pass before stepping out and closing the door behind him. They walked silently in the same direction. Davos did not know why the wretched woman walked beside him.

“He is good for her. And they _will_ be the greatest rulers to have ever risen, as the bringers of the dawn.”

Of, course, she had to go and start her preaching. Davos stopped, taking a deep breath before turning to look at the priestess beside him.

“Lady Melisandre,” He started, his jaw shut tight in frustration. “I have asked you many times,” He lifted his brows, trying to emphasize how ridiculous he thought she was with her obsession over both Daenerys and Jon. “Many and many times, to not start these kinds of conversations with me.” He lifted one hand, the one short of fingers, gesturing to the space between them. “You know how upset Lady Daenerys gets when we…disagree with each other.” He lifted both hands, like in surrender. “Let us not fight over it.”

The damned woman dared to smirk, clasping her hands prettily in front of her and not breaking eye contact with him. Davos shifted on his feet, nibbling on his lower lip as he kept his eyes on hers. Melisandre lifted her brows, tilting her head to the side as her smirk grew. His eyebrows twitched and he fisted his hands.

Wretched woman.

“Is he…” He took a deep breath, looking away from her and feeling like he had lost a fucking battle. “This Jon Snow…” He fumbled with his words, somewhat ashamed that the woman knew him so well as to know exactly what he would truly focus on her words. “Is he…agreeable?”

She smiled genuinely now. Davos knew that, for more than she regarded Daenerys as her Messiah, she enjoyed the young girl’s affection as if she was the girl’s mother. It was Melisandre who raised Daenerys, she was the sole female role model the girl had. Lady Selyse respected the girl as her Lord’s chosen, but chose to be apart from her. Davos sometimes questioned if Daenerys knew how important she was to the R’hllor followers on Dragonstone, though not all of them showed the same kindness and true reverence to the girl as Lady Melisandre did.

“He is kind and strong, a powerful and true leader.” She smirked. “He even has his own followers.”

“Yes,” He ignored the chill that went down his spine at the thought of the disturbing kid that had accompanied them to the Lord Stark’s solar. “The other bastard.”

“Bolton.”

He blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

She smiled, as serene as the sea before a storm.

“The other bastard is the natural son of Roose Bolton.”

For a moment, they stared silently at each other. Davos thought he could hear the echo of voices in the castle's walls, the rush of the warm water beneath the castle’s grounds.

“House Bolton…” He frowned. “Isn’t that the one house which is said to flay men?”

“The very same.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

They stood in silence for a few moments longer, and Davos swore the Red Woman was laughing at him.

“I’ll…” He took a deep breath, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’ll check on Lady Daenerys.” He nodded to himself, pivoting and turning back towards the other direction. His steps were quick, and he almost didn’t hear Lady Melisandre as she spoke to him.

“Her chamber is on the other way.” He changed his course swiftly, not even looking at the woman.

“Of course.”

While walking — running, but that was a mere detail — to the little dragon’s chambers, Davos couldn’t help but think back on the small girl, running around their ship and laughing heartily to the sun, the birds, the dolphins or any other thing that seemed to amaze her. It hurt to think that little Daenerys had grown, had a husband and would soon have a castle of her own and even children of her own.

Children! The little dragonfly would soon be a mother. And she was a girl of three and ten, not even legally mature but already a wife.

Something in him had broken when he had seen her take that boy’s hand at the wedding ceremony. He had cried silently, clutching tight to his beloved wife’s hands as she wept too for the child who had been theirs in the way of hearts. Little Daenerys, with her stained fingers, dirty dresses and books heavier than even she, had grown and would not be travelling around the world with him or playing with Shireen or their children. There would be no more inquiring if she could marry one of his older sons instead, so she could become his true daughter. There would be no history lessons with her stern, high voice painting the past in his mind. There would be no more silly planning to run away and help her become a maester, a pirate, a smuggler or, in one of her more rebellious phases, the best courtesan in the entire world.

He laughed quietly, fisting his hands as his mind went back to simpler times when she did not know what a courtesan did, only that they were revered in the whole world as beautiful and powerful women. They were in Volantis, soon to part for Lys, when she had first declared her newest dream, having heard of the mighty Black Swan and how the woman had once been the one to truly rule the Free City.

Somehow, these memories only made him sadder and he quickened his pace.

As he approached the family chambers, he soon saw the three handmaidens that had been given to her as the daring gifts from Magister Illyrio Mopatis.

“You three!” They froze, the two smaller Dothraki females hunching their shoulders and stepping closer to the older one, hiding behind her as she stepped in front of them, her eyes lowered meekly even as her shoulders settled firmly. “I am Ser Davos Seaworth, a friend of the Lady Targaryen.” The woman looked up at him. She nodded. Melisandre had mentioned that she had taken care of the three, telling them who they were allowed to speak to when inquired about Daenerys and preparing them for their new roles as thoroughly as she could in such short notice. “Lady Targaryen, how does she fare?”

They exchanged looks, a strange mix of frowns and small grins marring their faces.

“My lady is resting, Ser.” It was the fair-headed Lysene who answered. “She and her lord husband asked to be left alone.”

“Oh,” He huffed out, pursing his lips and shaking his head, meeting her gaze again. “Could you send word to her that I would like to speak of her in the morn?”

“Forgive me, Ser.” Doreah bowed her head. “Lord Targaryen told me he and his lady would like to partake in a private meal at morn. They won’t be available until noon, I’d reckon.”

“What?” He saw the way the two girls flinched at his harsh spoken words, both couldn’t be older than Daenerys. He softened his voice. “Why is that?” She pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes at him. A clever one.

“I shall not discuss my lord and my lady’s desires, Ser.” She tilted her head. “And I would advise you, _Ser_ ,” The way she said his title spoke of her inner strength, making him, a landed knight to her, a previous whore and now a servant, look like a bumbling fool. “To allow the Lord and Lady Targaryen rest in her chambers. _Unperturbed_.” With that, she curtsied and turned around, walking out with the two younger girls at her heels.

Davos was left looking at her back, eyebrows high on his forehead. It wasn’t often that an ex-slave developed such loyalty in such a small amount of time as this one had for her lord and lady.

“Well,” He spoke to himself, nodding in acquiescence. “It was _Daenerys_ who freed her.” He shook his head fondly before taking a deep sigh, letting his head fall forward in defeat. Pursing his lips, he searched his robes for the wood piece he had made. His last gift to the little girl he had watched grow.

Davos stared at the small dragon in his hands, made of white wood that gleamed like snow. He turned it in his hands, callused fingertips running through the intricate carvings. It was one of his finest pieces, the most complex piece he had ever made.

He stood there, in a dark empty corridor; an old man drowning in the past and grieving the loss of a child who never was his.

 

•••

 

“Oh, Davos, tell me you did not interrupt them,” Marya spoke as she fluttered around in their room, gathering toys from the ground and putting in a basket she held gains her hip.

“Of course not!” He huffed out, embarrassed. “Those…maids…advised me to let them have their rest,” He uttered, trying to pass on the image of nonchalance as his wife twisted around with a deadpan on her face he was awfully familiar with. “I thought it was a perfectly sound advice and went on to do my tasks.” He turned away from her, crossing his arms with petulancy similar to their young lads.

“Yet, why would you ever go and try barreling into their chambers like a savage just because of a boy, who,” She lifted her eyebrows, cocking her hip to the side and shaking her head to him. “Most likely, wasn’t even in the room with them, might I say.”

“Oh, please,” He fell on the bed, shaking his head and trying his best to show how indignant he was with her. He looked back at his wife over his shoulder, scowling at the unimpressed stare he was, unfortunately, used with. “I just…that boy is friends with a Bolton.” He turned on the bed, hissing and praying she would surely understand his worry.

Davos had never much cared for the doings and don’ts of the lords around the realm. But his knighting and then meeting of Daenerys made him pay more attention to the far North. Many would call him stupid, but he worried for Daenerys and had tried his best to know who she would have to deal with. House Bolton was savage and cruel with a story that would bring anyone to pure fright. Davos had seen the way the bastard Bolton boy had behaved. His whole being screamed of bloodlust and insanity.

Perhaps he had been too harsh by thinking the boy would suddenly harm Daenerys. It had been three days since they’d set foot in Winterfell and the boy had plenty of time to hurt her, he certainly wouldn’t do it now. Still, Jon Snow had lost the little trust he had n him by having such close ties to the unstable boy, no matter how short his leash was when dealing with him.

“A Bolton who I’m sure does not sleep with ‘em in their own chambers,” Marya finally put the basket aside and crawled into bed, kneeling in front of him and caressing his chin with a smirk on her lips. “Admit it, Davos.” She leaned forward, a teasing grin in her full mouth that made his heart jump with love. “You wanted to see our little dragonfly.”

“She is not ours,” He whispered. Marya’s eyes were roaming over his face, hand going from his chin to cup his cheek.

“She _is_ ours,” Marya smiled, rising on her knees and laying a light kiss on his brow, the way she always did when he felt particularly melancholic. “She is just not little anymore.”

He chuckled, embracing her plump body close to him and letting their bodies fall on the bed. “She is not a dragonfly anymore.”

“Yes,” Marya laughed with him. “Our beautiful Dany is a full dragon now.”

Childish giggles echoed in his ears, the feeling of the sun beating down onto his back and grass beneath his feet as he ran behind a little girl and an even smaller boy through the tall grass of the small clearing in the forest behind Cape Wrath. That was a beautiful day, the last one before the Targaryen and the Baratheon had parted from them. Daenerys had run amongst nature, chasing dragonflies and laughing to her little heart’s content.

Meric had roared in the distance, playing roughly with his brothers while Devan and Davos himself chased little Dany. Lord Stannis had sat stiffly beside Marya and Lady Melisandre on the blanket she had spread on the grass, conversing quietly with the kind woman and eating delicious goods. The sun shone brightly and birds had chirped happily, crickets sang and the air itself was light. A summer day like no other.

Dany — no, Lady Daenerys had no place in such games anymore, and that brought sadness and pride to his old heart. She had shone like the brightest of stars when walking to Jon Snow. The boy was mesmerized, even more than the awed crowd that had watched, and continued to watch, the most beautiful woman they had ever witnessed. When she had freed those girls, and when she had invited the poor sons of bitches to her home simply because _she could…_

“She’s the fiercest of them all.” He whispered, a lilt in his scruffy voice that spoke of his admiration.

“Mark my words, husband,” Marya propped herself on her elbow. “She will grab this world by its damn horns and drag we all to whatever and wherever she wants.” She shook with mirth, grinning and snapping her teeth at him. “She will be great, that girl and that boy and even the little Bolton bastard.”

“Hmm, you’re being awfully confident.” She slapped his chest, getting up from the bed and heading to the adjoining room where their children slept.

“That’s ‘cause I’m damn right.”

Davos chuckled, watching his wife disappear into the room as their lads’ excited voices washed over him. His eyes closed as he exhaled, entering in a lulled state as he waited for the sleeping realm to take his mind. Sleep took its sweet time with him, he was still awake when Marya finally blew away the candle by their nightstand, getting under their covers and snuggling close to him.

Northern nights were as frigid as he remembered from his various voyages, though he had never gotten as far in the countryside as Winterfell. The warmth of the castle was relieving, and he wondered how it would feel to sleep in Queenscrown, with its man-made heating systems. Davos closed his eyes and fell willingly into his night dreams. 

Only to be awakened by Marya’s harsh voice as she demanded him to wake up.

“Wha…” He blinked a few times, trying to dissipate the sleep from his mind as his vision focused on his wife’s stern face scowling down at him. “Mary…?”

“Lord Stannis is outta our door!” She scowled at him, throwing the covers from his body as someone opened the windows, letting the blinding light of the morning into the room and making him turn away in slight pain. Davos blinked many times before returning his gaze to the person who had dared help his dear wife with perturbing his peaceful sleep.

“Melisandre.” The sneer was evident in his voice and did not try to hide it. The Red Woman walked calmly around his chamber, gathering a bundle of clothes and passing it to Marya. His wife made no ceremony and simply threw the clothes at him.

“Yes! Dress yourself up! Hurry!” Efficient as ever, Marya gathered a small babe, Steffon, from the floor near their bed. As if called by their mother, Devan and Stannis ran out of the adjoined chamber, giggling like the little troublemakers they were as they followed their mother and Lady Melisandre out of the room. “I’ll go eat and ya better hurry and don’ make milord wait, you hear me Davos?” She narrowed her eyes at him over her shoulder before walking out. The Red Priestess turned around to smirk at him, closing the door and leaving him alone to change.

“Fuck,” He cursed to the silent room, glaring at the far wall in front of him. “I knew I should never have introduced those two.”

 

•••

 

“Did you send the messages?” Stannis walked briskly towards Daenerys’ chambers, not minding the slightly out of breath Davos as both him and Melisandre followed beside him. Davos noted with annoyance that the woman seemed as unflappable as ever.

“Yes, my lord.” He clasped his hand behind his back, trying to match Melisandre’s calm appearance as he nodded to an acquaintance that passed by them. Yun, a Lengii merchant that operated from Sunspear to Asshai and, he had suspicions, even beyond. She was a very capable woman but had unknown affiliations. She was the main operator between them and an investor, one of the more important ones who had even solicited a manse in Queenscrown.

“Davos,” The tallest woman — nay, tallest _being_ — he had ever met greeted him, a funny accent that had made him giggle like a child when younger.

“Yun! I hope to finally meet your master these days!” They stopped, Lord Stannis as rigid as he ever was when interacting with…anyone who wasn’t Shireen or Daenerys. Lady Melisandre pivoted on her foot as if she was a fucking water dancer, smiling like _she_ was a princess too. It always irked him how nonchalant she always looked.

The tall woman gave him a thin-lipped smile, nodding shallowly to Lord Stannis and exchanging a long look with the Red Priestess as she answered him. “My Master is delighted to be in Westerosi soil. He likes to think it’s the first time there has ever been so much of Yi Tish noble blood in these lands.”

“Ah, so he _is_ of Yi Tish blood. I had thought perhaps he’d come from your lands.”

Yun only smiled at him, as secretive as ever.

“My Master awaits eagerly for his meeting with the newest Targaryens. He would like very much to discuss his many investments in their rising city.” She bowed then, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her tunic and walking away.

“Who’s the master.” It was no question but a demand. Davos answered his lord promptly.

“The gold one.”

“And ornamentation one. Many, if not all stone-craft in the city was made by his artisans,” Melisandre spoke. Davos still wondered why in the Seven hells did the Priestess ever involved herself with such matters. “I suspect he dabbles into sorcery.”

Stannis kept quiet while Davos spanned around sharply to glare at her, sputtering in outrage. “Wha?! Why…Why would you ever say so?”

“The patterns in the samples he sent.” She tilted her head, staring out at the courtyard. “All of them had magic roots, runes and ancient languages with many meanings.” She narrowed her gaze, an inner glow to her red depths that terrified him. “For protection, good fortune, fertility…for power and for battles.”

“They aim to harm my cousin?” Stannis never looked away from their path, standing as if he was a warrior king ready to lay waste to those who wished to strike what was _his_. His fists were tight by his sides and his jaw was set. His blue eyes were glued ahead of them with all the fury his House’s words promised.

“No, my lord,” Melisandre changed in a snap of fingers, voice turning sultry as her hands sought out the Lord's arm, caressing him. “If they had, I would never have consented your acceptance of their alliance.”

“Good.” Stannis nodded sharply, finally moving forward and hurrying his stride. The three of them walked in silence until they approached the Stark’s living quarters. They met two Stark guards who accompanied them as they entered the main keep. “We’ll discuss the city with them now, so they may be prepared for those pests.”

“I thought Lady Targaryen was indisposed.” Davos looked ahead, one eyebrow lifting as they approached a red door.

“Not for me.” It brought a smirk to his lips and a slight chuckle from the priestess. The two Stark guard stood at attention at both sides of the door as Stannis raised his hand and knocked.

They stood in awkward silence, waiting for the door — red, really badly painted in his opinion. Should Daenerys, and them, be offended by such a bad piece of wood? — to open.

His musings were interrupted as one of the Dothraki girls opened the door. She was the smaller one of the duo. The girl looked at them with wide eyes before setting her gaze onto the Lady Melisandre and immediately curtsying. She was clumsy and too stiff, making do for an awkward effort. Her attempt at talking with them made her exotic origins even more obvious.

“Lords and lady. Khaleesi is…doing…she can’t…” Her lip trembled slightly, and it was painfully obvious she was a young girl not even older than Dany. Davos gathered that Stannis’ fixed gaze didn’t much help the poor girl’s nerves.

“Tell your lady her cousin wishes to see her. And tell her that I wish not to hear any of the nonsense she tells others. I know the girl is quite capable of meeting with me, if not these other idiots.”

The girl stood there, blocking the entrance to the room and no doubt only making Stannis more irritable while she gapped at him with confused eyes. It didn’t take long for the man simply shoulder past her, making her yelp. Melisandre did not hesitate in following Stannis but Davos stood back. His hand rose to squeeze the poor girl’s shoulder before he entered too.

The two other handmaids were in the chambers, the older blond one frowning heavily at them while the other girl flinched and backed away onto the wall with her gaze glued to the ground.

“My lord-” The Lysene woman tried to enter Stannis’ way.

“Where is my cousin.” Davos sighed. He really was in a bad mood.

The pleasure-girl stared at them, lost at words for a moment before her eyes lowered and she hunched her shoulder. Davos could see how her jaw was tightly set. That one had a fire in her.

She nodded towards a side door and Stannis marched towards it. He opened without hesitation, not caring about what he would find. And honestly destroying their minds because neither Stannis nor Davos appreciated the view of little Daenerys gleefully seated in Jon Snow’s lap while they bathed in a copper tub.

Just the other night, Davos thought numbly while he watched Dany blink owlishly up at them along with Jon Snow, he had grieved the loss of this child’s innocence.

They were both naked, as people usually were when taking a bath, and awfully close. Dany sat with her back glued to the boy’s naked chest, water barely hiding her body. The two lovers looked at them with panicked eyes and growing humiliation, or fiery rage in Daenerys’ case. The boy was hasty to cover her with his arms, hiding the little of her naked torso that was there to show.

The silence was grave indeed and Davos felt part of his soul dying. He felt a little bit more dead when Lady Melisandre’s barely concealed chuckle reached his ears. Stannis coughed.

“I’ll wait for you both in my solar so we can discuss business. If you can spare to stop your niceties with your guests so soon, then we shall get to work.” He nodded, and though Davos could not see his face, he still admired his lord for keeping his composure. Stannis turned around and left the chamber as quickly as he had entered.

Davos wished to join him if only his legs would obey his commands.

“Fire and Ice, Ser Davos,” Melisandre turned to him and it was finally enough to snap him out of his senses.

“Oh no, you don’t,” He put his hands on her shoulders, ignored her chuckles as he pushed her out of the room.”

“Did you see our Lord’s making, Ser?”

“Shut your trap, won’t you?”

 

•••

 

The silence was oppressive and awkward, as it often were after Stannis did these stunts that broke Daenerys’ privacy. Though this particular one was quite impressive and definitively the worst of them all, Davos couldn’t help but think.

Stannis had walked in Daenerys doing a various number of embarrassing and endearing things. Reading through his letters, dressing into his armour, planning to run away to become a pirate, planning to run away to hunt dragons, planning to run away to become a maester…the list was endless. It was a rite of passage for them that was ever harmless.

Until they walked in on her having a bath with her new husband.

Stannis was sitting stiffly in his armchair, Melisandre was by his left, hands clasped in front of her and a barely concealed grin on her lips as her eyes went from Jon to Dany with shining glee. Davos stood between the pairs, standing near the desk and trying to be as quiet as possible while observing the others.

They were both as red as tomatoes.

Jon Snow had his wide eyes glued to the ground while his whole face and the visible parts of his neck burned red with humiliation. Even though embarrassed, he stood close to his wife as she hugged his arm. Daenerys had a furious scowl twisting her beautiful features, clutching stubbornly to her husband's arm as she glared at her cousin.

The tensions in the room were high and terribly uncomfortable.

Davos coughed dryly, snapping his tongue and clasping his hand behind his back. He let his fingers drum anxiously over the stumps of what was left of his other fingers. “Well,” He spoke, daringly, attracting the attention of a furious dragon, an embarrassed bastard, a cautious lord and a gleeful priestess. “They are taking their time, I see.”

“Who.” He cringed at Lady Targaryen’s tone. She was _way_ past angry.

“Ned Stark, his brother and one of your most important investors.” His eyes went to the young boy. “You’ve met him already, boy.”

Jon’s face twitched awkwardly before setting into a bad imitation of his father’s cool mask. Bad as in; he was still as red as Melisandre’s clothes and hair while his gaze seemed not to be capable of meeting Stannis’.

“There’s a …a whole bunch of ‘em…” His voice failed him again. The difficulties of youth, Davos supposed. He still didn’t like the boy any more than he did after seeing him with his almost-daughter sitting naked on his lap, marriage be damned.

But it was him that had first ushered them to their duty on the night of their marriage. Davos told that part of him to fuck off and be quiet.

“The one in charge of the gas systems and its pipes,” Stannis answered dryly, searching the young lad for that spike of responsibility they had seen previously. It would not do for him to be unaware of his own dealings. Impossible, they knew it from the many letters exchanged, but their faith in the boy had diminished. No parent should ever enjoy knowing of their daughter’s private life.

“Ah!” Jon’s mouth opened, eyes glinting with understanding. “You speak of General Pol, then?” He moved on his feet, back straightening.

Davos could see the reluctant approval in Stannis’ eyes as well as he could feel it in himself. The older lord nodded.

“The very same.”

“Gas system?” They turned to Dany, who was still angry by the heavy frown marring her face, but willing to let it aside. Davos smiled, it was a very familiar thing to see. He knew no other with a better head on their shoulders than this young girl.

“Yes!” Jon exclaimed, turning to her, making her let go of his arm when he put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s the outlet we choose for the gas that came up from the burning of our chosen fuel in the furnaces.” Ah, so they had discussed the heating systems.

“What sort of fuel you chose that was so important to find an outlet for the gases?” Daenerys always made the strangest leaps, asking the right questions while having half a dozen that was already being answered by pure deduction. The girl truly was Stannis’ ward.

“The city waste,” Jon answered her, stepping forward towards the desk.

“Natural sources, meaning flammable gases…” She lifted an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Why would we distribute the gases through pipes?” One hand rose to grasp her chin as Stannis snorted amusedly. Davos smirked too when Jon looked back at her with surprised eyes. “And where would those pipes lead?” She pursed her lips. “Whatever the outlet is, it must be something of valor…do all pipes lead to our castle?”

Ah, there it was. The kindness that showed how soft her heart was to the people around her. He knew her well enough now to know that it was not the thought of using shit to warm up her city and then distribute its stench to her castle that bothered. No, it was the thought that whatever outlet they chose would be used only for them, not being shared with her citizens. Daenerys would be a good ruler, Davos always knew. But now, she would show it to the world.

“That’s what the General initially proposed when I met him in Qohor,” Stannis spoke, turning to Melisandre with a nod. The woman moved to one of the chests in the room. “We were unsure at first, but a letter from your husband told us that whatever we did for the castle, it should be available to all.”

“We always knew what you’d say, my dear,” Melisandre drawled, walking to the desk and depositing a stack of papers on it, returning to Stannis’ side once her task was done. “So we passed it on to the General, and after a few days of questioning with his people, he told us it was possible.”

“We spent one year planning for what we wanted initially before starting to build the Outer Walls.” Stannis began, taking out the largest of the papers the priestess had brought to him. He spread it over the table, attracting the two youngsters closer. “We started West, by the mountains, along with the excavations and preparation of the terrain itself.” He dragged his finger over the intricate paintings, passing by the West Gate by the mountains until the castle itself, built inside the lake. “It took eight years for the Outer Walls to be half built, missing only its South part, as it was more important to bar your lands from the constant raids from the North and East sides.”

“By the time the heating systems was done, we had problems with the gases produced in the furnaces.” Jon finally put his word in, one finger over the road between the innermost ring and the Inner Walls. “You see, everything is completely underground. Tunnels and galleries connect deep into out lands, isolating the stench of waste and gases. We had problems,” He sighed deeply, sadness in his eyes. Davos wondered if he was there when those problems came up. “Explosions, fires, poisoning… We weren’t even using _only_ waste from the town, depending more on wood and pitch and oil…but we already had problems. We needed to fix that and use that gas for _something_.”

“Which is where General Pol and the Golden Empire of Yi Ti come along.” Stannis nodded to Davos, and he nodded, heading to one larger chest. Opening, he nodded to the strange object in it, still finding it as odd and slightly terrifying as from when it was first sent to Stannis, when they were still in Volantis, as a ‘sample’. He took it in his hands and brought it to the table, setting it on top of the map and stepping back.

Davos observed the young couple. Jon had an excited glint in his eyes, gaze moving from the intricate piece to Daenerys. The Lady herself had an eager look Davos recognized from the many times she had obsessed with new information. This time, however, there was something heavier and more passionate about her that made a smile come to his lips. Of course, she would be much more happy to finally be able to be involved in her future home's growth and planning. 

“This,” He pointed at it with a flourish. “Is the very first prototype of the gas lamps they offered us.” The lamp was made of a light coloured wood, intricate and ornamented with silver, with red paper panels. It had an open orifice on the top, allowing for easy access and ignition.

“Lamp?” Daenerys tilted her head.

“Yes, Dany,” Davos blinked in shock at the nickname, numbly turning towards the pair as Jon Snow took a step closer to the lamp, fiddling with its base, where it was located a container. He turned the small knob, liberating the gas into the lamp with a low hiss. Jon looked up at Stannis, who already was offering him a long piece of burning paper that he took with a slight nod. He put it into the orifice and touched the burning end to the base.

“Oh,” She blinked at the burning light, flaring inside the lamp and casting a red sheen to the table. “For how long it burns?”

“With a small container with gas? A few hours.” Jon shrugged, crossing his arms and meeting her stare with a smirk. “With a constant supply of fuel? It will burn until we want it too.”

“Or until the fuel ends,” Stannis stressed out, leaning forward on the table and glaring at the young boy. “Which is one of our main concerns nowadays.”

Daenerys turned back to Jon, a condescending look in her eyes. The lord Targaryen — wasn’t it weird that there was now another Targaryen? If only but in name. — sighed, one hand rising to massage his temples before he met her stare with a pained one of his.

“There’s not enough people for us to depend on the city waste as our main fuel.” He frowned, directing his eyes down as he shook his head. “It’s too costly to keep buying so much fuel for so many furnaces” He put one fisted hand in front of his lips, glaring at the lamp on the desk. “It’s impossible to have a balanced system when less of two-tenths of our lands are populated.”

“You need more shit, it’s what he means.” Stannis spit out, leaning back in his chair. “You need more people living there, Daenerys.”

“Or?”

“Well, or you’ll be drowning in debt trying to sustain it with your own gold.”

Others would look afraid, Davos mused. Many, if not all man he knew would be scared shitless now. Not these two though. Daenerys had that look in her eyes when she had found a challenge worthy of her time while Jon just looked sombre but fucking terrifying. The duo only nodded sharply in answer, waiting for further counsel.

He saw when Stannis laced his fingers in front of his mouth, hiding the satisfied smirk on his lips. Melisandre didn’t care to hide her own satisfied smile, stepping forward with her hands clasped in front of her midriff.

“You must find balance,” She spoke, and though she was talking about their difficult situation, Davos felt she was preaching again. He held back his snort, barely. “Only then you shall thrive.”

“Thank you for your conveniently vague words, Lady Melisandre.” Davos drawled out, receiving a nod in response from the Red Woman. He turned to the newlyweds. “And the opportunity lies here, in Winterfell.”

“Your reckless words will be turned into our favour, bringing small folk to you.” Stannis propped himself on his desk, leaning forwards. “Now you need to put rich idiots into your home.”

“How?” She asked, violet gaze narrowed.

“Being yourself, of course,” Davos spoke, trying to soothe her.

“Give them something everyone will want.” Stannis continued. “You are, as of now, the most technologically advanced family in all of Westeros. No little toy they buy in the East will overcome the sheer brilliance that is Queenscrown.” He pointed at them both. “You must use this power to your advantage.”

“Many of our investors have commissioned their own palaces in our lands.” Jon stepped forward, leaning over the map and moving the lamp aside. One of his fingers teased over the sixth district ring. “All of those palaces were build in the sixth and seventh ring, occupying the Western parts of these districts. The palaces are closed now, but once they are open to the systems, there’s no closing them back.” He frowns to the map. “We will require payment for their using of our lands.”

“And they are here to negotiate their method of payment.” Daenerys walked forwards, eyes pensive.

“With your sudden richness in minerals and crystals, they will do their damn best to lure you into their traps,” Davos interceded, crossing his arms and nodding towards the pile of papers on the desk. “It’s not only about the potential Targaryen in neutral lands, it’s now about the _rich_ Targaryen in neutral lands.”

“And that’s, without doubt, your biggest advantage, Daenerys,” Stannis stared up at her, eyes blazing. “You have no connection to this kingdom anymore. You serve the Night’s Watch.” He smirked at them. “You make your own rules in those lands. Remember that when you’re negotiating with them.” Daenerys’ eyes shone. “Remember that when you’re building up your home.”

“Then, _we_ will lure them into our home, not the other way around,” Jon spoke, smirking at Stannis. The man nodded.

“Any idea how you will manage that?” Davos called out to him, brows raised in question. Jon opened his, frowned, and then turned to his wife. She met is gaze thoughtfully before turning to the stack of papers on the desk, gathering them and skimming over their contents.

“They want repayment from us…They will use guilt and Jon’s sense of honour, like when he told them how we would repay them all…”

“And we will.” Jon forced through, grinding his jaw.

“Of course we will, Jon.” Daenerys chuckled. “We need to have a guess on what they are willing to invest in us…some way to know how deep into our cause they are…” Her eyes lighted up, and Davos knew she had figured out. “Our gifts!”

“Your gifts?” Stannis questioned.

“Yes!” She clapped her hands in front of her, smiling brightly at them. “Think for a moment, cousin!” She stepped forward leaning into his space while her hands supported her upper-body onto the desk. “Gifts are something chosen to give to a certain person, it’s something the giver chooses carelessly or with extreme care.”

“How so?” He encouraged her, making her smile shine even further.

It was always like that. Daenerys using that big head of hers, and unlike most males in their world, Stannis encouraged her. Challenged her, made her think further and think harder. It made Daenerys even more beautiful, in Davos’ humble opinion.

“You have given me a _Valyrian steel sword_ , cousin.” She smirked. “Would your brother do the same for me?”

“You have a Valyrian steel sword?!” Jon whispered furiously in a high-pitched voice that made Davos snort heavily while trying to hide his building laugh.

“That’s not _important_ right now, Jon!” As always, when Daenerys entered her rants of brilliance, she did not even turn to her source of annoyance. “Do you understand? A gift is something that represents _involvement._ ”

They stood there, staring at each other and ignorant of the world around them. Ward and guardian, cousins and friends, family in a level deeper than even blood. Then Stannis smirked, one hand rising and taping her nose with a single finger like he used to do when she was nothing but a little child running around his legs, grasping at his clothes and begging to be carried in his arms.

“Well done.” They were interrupted by a knock on the door. “We shall meet tonight in your rooms, and properly check your gifts. We will see what we will do then.” He nodded to Davos, and he bowed in response to his lord. “Your first meeting awaits.”

 

•••

 

“Come in, come in!” Excited as she was, Daenerys dragged the Lord Stannis inside her room by his hand. She let go of him and swirled around, flaring her wool blue dress and raising her arms to display the various chests spread around the room. “Doreah and Ramsay have scouted all parties and have checked with every guest, collecting some other presents that weren’t yet given.” She didn’t stop, not even to breath, firing word after word as her eyes shone with inhuman glee. Hands flaring out in flourishes as her hair moved like a silk curtain with her very moment. It made Davos chuckle fondly. “Some few _insisted_ on delivering their own when we met them properly.” She puffed out her cheeks, hands planting on her hips as she glared at the pile for a few second before turning a bright smile on them. “I asked Jhiqui and Irri to separate the gifts by their worth in gold or by the item itself.” She pointed to a pile near the hearth. “That’s weapons.” She pointed to another by her feet. “Those are the rarest and exotic of gifts.” She took a deep breath, readying herself to deliver another dozen of rapidly fired words.

“Slow down, my lady,” Jon came out of the bath chamber — Davos shuddered — while twisting his long curls out of the bun he usually kept his hair in. “Lord Baratheon has just arrived, you can spare yourself some breath to properly greet him.” He stopped and bowed to the lord in question. “Lord Baratheon.”

“Stannis, please,” The man’s mouth curled bitterly. “We shall spend a good while in the company of each other.”

“Lord Stannis then,” Jon nodded in agreement, making Dany smile at them both.

“We haven’t actually opened any of them,” She affirmed, walking towards Jon with a warm smile that he reciprocated before setting his face into a cool mask. “I knew it would be best for us to wait for you.”

“You should have.” Stannis drawled out, kicking lightly to one of the chests by her bed. One Davos recognized the symbol of the Magister Illyrio of Pentos. “Would have saved our time.”

“Don’t be so gruff, Lord Stannis.” Dany giggled, dancing towards a small table between two armchairs by the fire, taking a small book resting on top of it. “Doreah has made note of all the gifts given to us.” She handed the book over.

“And I bet you haven’t opened this particular book, too occupied with your husband to care for such things,” He taunted her, bringing a smile to Davos’ lips and a shocked gasp from his ward. “Tell me, how did a pleasure-girl from Lys is so literate?”

“Cousin!” She hissed, side-eyeing Doreah as she clutched to her skirts.

“My bad,” He said dryly, sitting in one the armchairs. “So, where do we begin?”

Narrowing her eyes at him, Dany stomped forward, falling into the other armchair as Jon rested his arms on the high stuffed back of the chair. “Why don’t you take a look at the book and see what catches your eye?”

“A game, then,” He nodded to her, opening the book with boredom. He sighed deeply. Lady Melisandre moved to the wine pitcher, serving herself with a cup and then walking to sit at the arm of the chair Stannis sat in. Davos snuggled with the will to gag.

The fire crackled in the hearth as the handmaidens moved about, the blond silent but ever close to them. She was the spokesperson for the trio, the only one completely competent in their language to properly communicate. And she was the older one too, so that was something.

Davos sighed, looking at the poor children. They’d been sold, they had been _slaves_. They looked so scared of them, flinching when approached, with their gaze always glued down. It made his heart light to see how comfortable they were with wee little Daenerys. The girls approached her with quiet words and mischievous smiles, turning to Jon to show this or that before returning to growing pile of objects they had received.

“Irri and Jhiqui are dealing with the minor gifts like clothes and some other small things,” Jon smirked at Daenerys, who let her head fall back to grin up at him. “Daenerys attacked any clothe, texture or beauty accessory sent with greedy hands, so technically, you did open some gifts.”

“Small ones,” She widened her eyes in the way she always did when she tried to appear innocent, escaping blame from pranks or games gone wrong. Jon lifted an eyebrow, making her lips tremble into a guilty smile. “Pretty ones.”

“Any worth mentioning?” Stannis questioned, passing one page.

“Silver and gold threads from House Lannister,” She leaned further into the armchair, and Jon — cheeky boy that he was — let one hand slide over her shoulder and let it circle half of her dainty neck, caressing her skin with his thumb. The boy’s cheeks were redder than Melisandre and he dared not to look away from the crown of her fair head, but he comforted her all the same. Davos felt himself —reluctantly, might he add — enjoying the boy’s careful gestures with his dear little friend. “Scented oils and perfumes from House Tyrell,” Davos held back his chuckle. “Face and lip dyes and kohl from cousin Renly…”

“Of course.” Stannis snorted. His eyes skimmed over one particular page before freezing, all amusement leaving his face. He pulled the book close to his face with a heavy frown. “Girl!” They all jumped at his harsh voice. “The Lysene one!” The blond hurried to his side.

“Cousin, her name is Doreah!” Daenerys hissed at him.

“Yes, yes, Doreah,” He got up on his feet, twisting to meet the woman. “Dragon eggs, from Magister Illyrio Mopatis. Get them, now.” Davos finally gagged, though it wasn’t because of Melisandre.

Dany gasped so loudly it sounded half a sob. “Dragon eggs? Bring them to me, Doreah!” Jon stared at them with wide eyes, quick to help Doreah when she struggled to get the heavy chest Stannis had kicked when arriving. They put the heavy wooden chest in front of Daenerys, who kneeled on the floor. She unlatched the chest, throwing the lid open and making them all gasp. Minus Stannis and Melisandre, but Davos doubted anything could really take a reaction from those two. And the handmaidens too, they were fully quiet.

Three eggs, resting on a bed of straw. The middle and biggest of them was black with red swirls and ripples, as dark as the night and a pool of blood. Another was green, dark green with a bronze shine to it. The final one was white, a creamy colour with streaks of gold. The three together, bathed into the candlelight, brought a sensation Davos could hardly describe.

“They say there are dragon eggs in Dragonstone,” Daenerys whispered reverently to Jon when he kneeled beside her. Davos blinked, turning his eyes away from the priceless gifts in front of them to them and focusing on the two young Targaryens, one by blood and the other by marriage. “I’ve never found them.” She exhaled, her pupils so dilated her eyes seemed black. Jon wasn’t so different from her, eyes glued to the dragon eggs.

The bastard boy huffed, his breath coming in gulps of air when one of his hands rose, trembling. His fingertips touched lightly to the creamy egg, reverence and wonder spilling out of him as his hands grasped the egg. He brought it up, holding it high so the light played against it, highlighting its gold streaks.

He whispered with a strange sort of light in his eyes. “It’s warm…” The magical moment was broken by Stannis pulling the egg from the boy’s hands. Jon’s face twisted for a moment, so terrifying and outrageous, Davos’ hand twitched towards the sword that was there at his side.

“I don’t feel it.” Stannis frowned, turning the egg he held before facing Doreah. “To each their own, I suppose. More importantly…” He pointed the egg towards Doreah, eyes narrowed as he sneered. “ _You_ are supposed to be Illyrio Mopatis’ gift. Yet,” He shook the egg slightly. “Here it is, three dragon eggs that must have cost as much, if not more, than the single Valyrian steel sword I bought for my ward.” He threw the costly egg to Jon, who fell upon himself in desperation to catch it, Daenerys looking at the action with shocked eyes that Davos feared would fall off her eye sockets. “You have one chance to explain yourself before I send you three to the dungeons.”

Davos nodded in understanding, turning to the other two girls. They were hugging each other, hiding behind the poster bed and watching Stannis with wide eyes full of fear.

“My lord,” He started, wishing Stannis would control himself as to not scare the poor children. “Please, calm-”

“Viserys Targaryen.”

Everything stopped.

The silence felt thick over their heads. Davos could heart the heavy breaths being drawn by every one of them. Daenerys’ were louder than any others, a fragility to her he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Viserys…” She whispered, painful longing evident in her whole being.

“Yes, my lady. Your brother purchased us for you, thought it best to have…to give you…” Doreah gulped, turning her blue eyes away from the hopeful girl’s gaze.

“Tell me,” Dany grunted. She set her jaw and raised her chin, obviously trying to ignore the tears growing in her eyes. “Tell me _exactly_ what he said.”

Doreah’s gaze searched permission not from Stannis, but from Jon Snow. They exchanged long looks before she settled her eyes over Stannis, speaking to Dany even though her gaze did not leave the older lord’s glare.

“He told us to be your company and train you well for when he finally rescues you and you can give him his army.” She bit her lip, eyes dark with fear. “For when you set your foot in Essos once more, it’ll be to marry the one he chose for you and give him his forty thousand Dothraki.”

“What.” The word was growled out as if by a beast. Davos moved his eyes towards Jon’s shaking form and thought that, perhaps, it wasn’t the Bolton he had to worry about being too violent.

“My brother…” Daenerys gasped out, one hand rising to her chest as her face twisted in agony. Melisandre, quiet for so long, bolted out of her seat, throwing herself onto the floor and gathering the girl close to her chest. She shushed her, even if Daenerys did not cry or yell in pain. Her long fingers caressed her hair gently.

“Shush, dear girl, you only know what you have suspected for a long time,” Melisandre whispered to her, loud enough for them all to hear. “Your brother is no true dragon.”

“Mad, her brother is mad as we suspected.”

“The beggar king indeed,” Stannis nodded to Davos. He turned to the handmaiden once more. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I had no chance and would dare not to direct my word upon you, my lord.”

“How can I trust my ward with you?” He shook his head, scowling furiously. “You may be an agent of her brother.”

“No,” Daenerys spoke, her voice strong even when she shook. Jon turned on his knees, offering his hand to her and she took it, grasping tightly to him. It warmed Davos’ heart to see her trusting the boy so easily, even at the cost of her childish innocence. “They stay.”

“Daenerys…”

“They. _Stay.”_ Their eyes met and they exchanged glares for a long time before he shook his head exasperatedly, closing his eyes with a deep sigh.

“Very well.” He nodded before opening the book once more, rolling his eyes heavenwards. “Gods helps us.”

“God, there is but one true God, my lord.”

“Whatever.” He scowled again and turned around to Doreah. “Bring the other egg.”

“Other egg?” Daenerys whispered. Her face looking terribly tired. Stannis scowled even further when seeing her.

“Compose yourself,” He whispered softly, his words harsh but his gaze soft. “We shall deal with your brother and Illyrio Mopatis at a later date. You have just proven to us what you said this morning.” Davos and Melisandre, and perhaps Daenerys herself were the only ones in the room that understood what he really wanted to say.

He did not wish further bring her pain, they shall discuss it at a later date. He would not go behind her back and would not coddle her, but Stannis was a fair man and knew his ward better than anyone. He also knew when she needed space.

“My lady,” Doreah stepped forward, in her hands was a ridiculously ornamented box made of shiny white stone. Davos puzzled over it quietly, many it was marble, but if it was, how the hell Doreah managed to lift it so easily? “Here.”

Daenerys took the box from her, holding it with one hand as Jon came to her side. Davos remained by the small table where he had stood for a long time now, observing as her fingers danced over carved runes and gems, over swirls made of pure gold before she opened the lid. Inside was a bright yellow Dragon egg, shining as if made of gold. It had no other colours, unlike its brothers. It seemed…ethereal. Different from the other in a way that brought a chill to his soul.

Again, both Daenerys and Jon seemed drawn to the egg. They looked hypnotized by it, pupils dilated completely as they looked upon it with awe.

“Who gave this one?” Dany questioned softly, one hand caressing the egg as Jon hugged her, and the egg, close to his side as he held part of the box in his other hand. “It’s warm too…”

Davos looked at Stannis, but the man was frowning at the book in his hands before facing Doreah. The woman seemed to already know what he was going to ask.

“It is as you read, my lord.”

“Very well, then,” Stannis returned his gaze to the book, his mouth pressed into a grim line as he answered Daenerys’ question. “This egg was given to you by the Yellow Emperor.”

Davos shifted on his feet, confused over his lord's ominous words. "And who's that, my lord?" They all stared at Stannis expectantly.

The man frowned deeply at the book in his hands before snorting, closing it with a snap. "I don't fucking know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post a meta explaining more about the heating/gas systems. But I want to let it clear here that it is all hypothetical and I'm not a professional okay? I used what was convenient and what made sense to me, along with some historical facts. (Did you know that in ancient China they used bamboo pipes for heating and gaslighting? It's a little more complicated than that but damn.)
> 
> I want to let it very clear early on in this story that I'll use very few OC, and none of them will grow to be a frequent and main character. Having this in mind, I used only but one OC character in this chapter and only because it was convenient.
> 
> Also, yes you read it right. Queenscrown is neutral ground. It has no ties to the Seven Kingdoms. It's a clean slate. They can do whatever in there. What are your thoughts on that? What do you think Dany and Jon will do next?
> 
> Also, that fourth dragon egg? This is the link to the texture I imagined it: http://kazemari.tumblr.com/post/169678477564/algirdasjavtokas-artist-algirdas-javtokas
> 
> Okay, what about the palaces, Mari? Palaces aren't like, really big places that could be more like a castle? Yeah, nope. Queenscrown palaces are in the vibe of italian palazzos like the Palazzo Grimani di San Luca, or Palazzo Chiericati, Palazzo Vidoni-Caffarelli or Palazzo Corner della Ca' Grande. I'll explain more about QC's architecture when we actually get there.
> 
> About Dany's travels, I told ya I had these figured out!
> 
> Aaaaaand, please tell me about any typos, this un-beta'ed and I'm so tired. :'D
> 
> Shout out to Anthony, who better post his story soon before I explode from anxiety.


	6. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark is having the time of her life, and all of it is because of Jon Snow's marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning to you all, Sansa is TEN YEARS OLD. So, yes, she's a bit more free-minded, because she's not yet at that 'boys, boys and boys' phase. Puberty has not hit this poor child yet, so she's a bit more malleable.
> 
> This chapter can be described as cute and hilarious and a bit disturbing because Ramsay.
> 
> This chapter is to toaquiprashipar and FireEyes7. I hope you two beautiful people get a little bit better <3

Sansa had never thought about the world she lived in. For her, the only other place that had ever mattered was the South. King’s Landing and its glorious court was her dream. She would spend hours daydreaming, thinking about how it would be the most beautiful place she would ever set foot; where people walked the streets dancing and laughing and singing. Songs were common knowledge everywhere, even the common folk would know them by heart. Sansa imagined herself dancing with a golden prince with a courageous heart, imagined herself walking through beautiful gardens — so different from the one glasshouse full of practical things and only the one blue rose her home had to offer — with hundreds of different flowers. Ladies of all Seven Kingdoms would dance with her, laugh and gossip as knights fought for their favour. Sansa had thought that was the very best the world had to offer.

The weeks prior and the days after her bastard brother’s marriage showed her that her vision of the world was awfully narrowed.

She giggled, holding her skirts tight and daringly high as she ran from two Tyrosh noble girls, one with bright green hair that mimicked the girl’s father, and the other, her handmaiden, with bright yellow hair like the sunflowers Sansa often saw in her books and songs. They ran from Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s best friend and daughter of Winterfell’s castellan. It was a game of tag, the girls had explained. They often played it on the beaches and gardens of their home.

In that moment, Sansa did not think about a lady’s propriety and duty. She ran freely between guests, laughing as she tried to escape her dear friend and trying to match up with the two other foreign girls.

They passed by the majestic Yi Tish nobles and rich merchants from all of the Free Cities, Sansa even tried her best to bow to the few fellow Westerosi nobles she recognized. She saw the silvery-golden hair of the Lysene people, the multicolored strands of Tyroshi, the olive skin of the people descended from the Rhoynar, — making almost impossible to differentiate those from Myr from those from Dorne — Sansa saw Norvoshi with their strange mustaches and that one priest with a giant beard that all children in Winterfell mocked as of late. Courtesans, ladies, princesses and even female captains — female! — watched the young girls with fond eyes or annoyed glances. The few children they passed by soon entered their game, foreign and Westerosi alike from various ages playing and laughing together. Not once Sansa was tagged by any of those! She was no Arya, with her Underfoot abilities and quick steps; but none of them was as smart as Sansa. They ran until the crowd was far too big for the great castle’s corridors, making the adults shoo them away to the outer corridors, where they all bumped into each other while trying to escape the older people’s fury.

“Here!” A familiar voice shouted by one of the dark pillars. They all turned around, seeing Arya Stark herself positioned on top of the stone edge separating the corridor from an inner courtyard. “I’ll catch you all!” And with that daring affirmation, Arya — her younger and stupid sister — jumped in the middle of the crowd. Chaos reigned, they scrambled over each other trying to run away from the tiny girl. Sansa admired her sister’s attack in that moment; she had both made them desperate enough to not be careful over their moves, even at the cost of disbanding the crowd and making it more difficult for her to choose a target, and settled herself in the middle of them, having perfect access to many more of them than she would have if she had continued to run behind them. But, like Arya, Sansa had a better grasp of her own home and an even better head. She knew exactly where that one stone edge three paces from where she stood would lead her.

Holding her skirts tighter around her, — and silently cursing them for being so impractical, just to feel incredibly embarrassed soon after because she sounded like _Arya_ — Sansa weaved through the crowd, having long lost her friends, and put her hands on the stone, hoisting herself over with a grunt. She bit her lip, over-conscious that maybe someone had heard her unladylike noise. She heard no shocked gasp nor a disappointed sigh, so she quickly pulled her legs over, turning outside. She looked down.

It was a little nuke behind the armoury that gave passage to the courtyard where Jon, Robb and Theon often had their training. The wooden wall of the armoury blocked the view of the empty space in the corner of the tall wall of the upper passageways and the stone edge separating it from the castle. It was a bit high and Sansa felt scared only by looking down. There was mud below from the rain a few hours past, maybe that would soften her fall. Still, it was no place for a lady to jump in the mud.

Delighted screams made her look back. Arya remerged from the small crowd that had stayed, a giant smile on her mouth as she ran past Sansa. The other kids yelled in mocking rage and Sansa’s eyes widened. She turned to the ground below and did not hesitate in jumping.

As her feet hit the ground, Sansa stumbled on her knees and hands, splashing mud all over her dress. Above her, the screaming crowd passed with no clue. Even though she was dirty and smelly, Sansa felt eerily gleeful. She had escaped! Not even Arya had remembered the little hiding corner. Exhilarated, she shot to her feet, already planning where she could best meet the crowd and return to such delightful game. So excited she was, she did not search out the courtyard to see if there was anyone there. Sansa jumped out of her little corner with a wide smile that soon fell as she met a group of men sparring.

They were all dressed mostly in yellow and black colours of House Baratheon and the green and gold of House Tyrell. She recognized the Tyrell brothers. Beautiful as a rose himself, the recently knighted Ser Loras laughed loudly with Lord Renly, while his brother, Ser Garlan the Gallant, shook his head at them both. Sansa stood there, gaping at them and at their loyal bannermen and guards, and all she could think was that she must look _like a savage!_

She was quick to return to her corner, her back glued to the wood of the armoury as she closed her eyes tightly, screaming at herself for behaving so recklessly like her sister. Sansa was the good daughter! She was the lady! Yet, here she was, sweaty and muddy and completely unladylike. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes and she sobbed quietly at the heavy embarrassment turned humiliation that filled her.

What would her mother think? What would her _father_ think of her? Septa Mordane would be so disappointed…Theon would laugh and Robb would try to hide his own amusement while trying to appear as disappointed as Mother. Arya would call her a coward for crying over a little _mud_.

“A little,” she huffed over her tears. She raised one arm, trying to wash her tears away as she scowled furiously. “I’d show her a little mud…” It only made her cry harder, her mouth forming a trembling pout as she hugged herself.

Jon would…Jon would ask if she had fun. And she would have to say; of course not, that was a child’s game and I was only being courteous for our guests’ sake. And then she would frown at him, just the way mother always did, and he would smile sadly at her, almost like he’d cry or fall at her feet in forgiveness at any moment. She’d hesitate, her face would twist and she would think; _is mother wrong? Are the gods wrong? How can a boy so gentle be made of sin?_ Then, mother’s voice would echo in her head along with Septa Mordane’s and she’d storm out of the room with an insult falling out of her lips that always felt far too empty.

Sansa snuffled, slowing sliding down against the wood wall until she was crouching on the mud, her knees close to her chest as she hugged them close. She would have to wait until they got out of the courtyard. She was already covered in mud, might as well make herself more comfortable while she waited.

Again, her mind returned to Jon Snow. No, he was no longer just a bastard, Sansa reminded herself, a small — and proud — smile on her lips her tears ran down her cheeks and the cold settled deeper into her bones. Lord Jon Targaryen, Lord of the Gift, Lord of Queenscrown…Jon was lord of a lot of things now. Or he would be? Sansa had heard no word of officialization, and if there was one thing Sansa Stark knew about, it was the need for an official declaration. Mother often said that Jon could never have the North because Robb was the _official_ heir. As was Brandon, the _second_ heir and Rickon, the _third_. Though neither Jon or Robb were sixteen, and could only become lords if their father died or there wasn’t a suitable reagent.

“I wonder…” She whispered to herself, rubbing the mud away from her sleeves.

She bit her lip, trying to think beyond the cold. Leaning against the wall, she saw the men returning to spar, this time with one of the foreigners with a curved blade. Sansa puffed out her cheeks, narrowing her eyes at them and trying to find some alternative route that would keep her honour as a lady intact, allowing her to pass unnoticed by the warriors. Tears welled up in her eyes again, this time in pure frustration at not finding an escape.

She turned back around, crying again and feeling stupid for it. The tear tracks would only make her face colder, and could already feel the bite of the cold temperatures of her home. Sansa lowered her head into her arms, ignoring the way her body started to tremble slightly. She was of Northern blood, it would take a long while for her to even be distracted by such a simple cold.

That’s what she told herself as the minutes passed.

She was starting to plot all of those stupid men’s demises — why wouldn’t they just _go away_?! — when a cautious voice called for her.

“My lady?” Sansa sprung to her feet, looking up at the stone edge she had jumped from. A tall blond woman with a heavy cape, which Sansa could glimpse the metal of armour — a woman in armour! — under it, was looking shyly down at her. Sansa blinked and then her eyes widened. She looked back where the men were — _still!_ —fighting.

“Shhh!!!” She stepped closer to the stone edge — which was way higher from where she stood than when she had jumped down — and planted a desperate finger over her lips, looking over shoulder briefly before meeting the woman’s blue eyes. “They’ll know I’m here!” She whispered sharply.

“Oh!” The woman’s mouth opened in shock, her shine eyes moving towards the fighting men briefly before turning back to her. “And why are you hiding from them, my lady?” She frowned, lips pressing sternly as her beautiful eyes hardened. “Did they do something harmful towards you?”

“Oh,” Sansa blinked. It did appear as if she was hiding from them like she was scared of them. “No!” She shook her head, hands rising as if she could appease the woman. Seeing her mud-stained fingers made her blush, and she clasped her hands behind her back. “No, my lady. I’m just…” Sansa gulped, unsure what to do or say. The woman smiled kindly at her, her white cheeks painted bright red by either cold or her own apparent shyness.

“You were hiding from your friends’ game, perhaps?” Her voice was gentle as she leaned further towards Sansa.

Suddenly very much ashamed of her state, as much as she would have been if she’d had gone out in the open for all those noble men to see, Sansa nodded. She pursed her lips, promising herself to never enter such games again.

“Mayhap…” The woman looked at the men slyly, a tight smile on her lips that did nothing to cover the kindness in her features. “You don’t wish the lords to see your beautiful dress soiled by dirt?”

Anger rose quickly in her and Sansa glared defiantly at the woman for a few second before her shoulders slumped and she nodded dejectedly. She was too tired to care about her pride as a lady. The woman in armour chuckled quietly, one gloved hand rising to cover her lips before she smiled gently down at Sansa. She extended her arms down, fingers splayed open as she bent her tall frame over the stone edge.

“Let us escape from them by the same place you jumped from, then?” The woman smiled at her, her unattractive features shining with an inner beauty that matched the glorious bride of her bastard brother. “I am Brienne of Tarth, who might you be, my fair lady?”

Tarth was the isle of sapphires of the Stormlands. The awkwardly shy woman with the big blue eyes and melodic voice was of apparent noble birth, despite her appearance. Sansa had studied all houses in Westeros as extensively as she could in the years leading up to Jon’s marriage. She had always puzzled over the Lady Tarth. She had thought that perhaps she would be crass; because, how could such a wild woman be anything but? Her sister she could barely tolerate, and she wasn’t even trained at arms like this Brienne was rumoured to be! Sansa gnawed her lip, stopping at once. Septa Mordane had often said it was completely unladylike, that habit of hers.

“You know,” Lady Brienne spoke once more, shifting awkwardly. “I am friends with the Lady Daenerys,” She smiled brightly, clear affection in her eyes transforming her face in a way no face dyes could. “I am sure she could help you. She has the most beautiful dresses and the best beauty products!”

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to get out of these dirty clothes and into whatever rich clothe Lady Targaryen had in her chambers. Excited, Sansa immediately grasped at the woman’s hands. Brienne counted until three before hoisting her up. Sansa planted her feet in the cracks of the stone wall, securing her hands on the stone edge as Lady Brienne hands let go of hers to hold her around her waist and lift her up as easily as if she was a doll. As Sansa was put safely inside the castle’s corridors once more, the men in the courtyard all cheered loudly. Sansa lowered her head, hands rising to cover her face, now uncaring about the mud on her hands.

“They knew!” She hissed, mortified.

“Yes, my lady, few things can escape the eyes of such fine knights and seasoned fighters,” Sansa glared up at the lady Brienne. Her eyes widened though when she saw the woman taking off her own cape and putting it on her small shoulders. “They asked me to check on you after you failed from emerging from your little corner for so long.” Brienne smiled awkwardly at her, shrugging. “I was not there at the time, but they told me you made a smart and successful escape from your friends.”

Blinking up at her in surprise, Sansa frowned slightly. She turned her head around, looking at the distant faces of the men as they clapped and waved at her, huge smiles on their faces. She could even see Ser Loras and Ser Gallan clapping cheerfully for her. One of her hands rose tentatively, giving a small wave that was returned by the Lord Renly and Ser Loras, along with shouts of congratulations. Sansa blushed something fierce and twisted away, staring at the ground intensely. Lady Brienne chuckled.

“Let’s get you to my friend, she’ll know what to do,” Brienne nudged her forward and Sansa obeyed. The heavy cape dragged on the ground.

The Lady Brienne made her best to use the most empty of corridors, and Sansa appreciated it with all of her being. Though she obviously knew how to better navigate the castle, the woman seemed to know where she was going. Sansa chose not to interrupt her and just kept her head lowered.

They walked for a few minutes until they reached the Library tower. Entering it, Sansa breathed in deeply to the scent of old ink and parchment. It calmed her, even if she took no joy from the various tomes the way little Bran seemed to slowly enjoy. They didn’t take long to find her new good-sister. She was nodding to what an olive-skinned woman was saying, while Lord Stark — _father_! She cried in her head — and Jon flanked her sides, staring sullenly at a smug and stoic — how could a man be both? — Lord Stannis.

“Lady Daenerys, my lords, my lady,” Brienne announced their entrance, bowing politely to each of them. Lord Stark and Jon snapped their heads towards them, Daenerys hesitated, took a deep breath and turned towards them with a frown that soon gave space to surprise.

“Sansa?” It was her father who spoke, and she could hear how shocked he was. Suddenly, the caked mud on her face and hands and feet and dress…suddenly she felt every bit of the dirt on her weight heavily.

“Father…” Gulping, Sansa tried to blink away the tears. Jon and Father moved sharply towards them, eyes wide and stance so alike she thought no one could ever say they were not father and son. It only made her eyes well up with more tears. “I am sorry! I didn’t mean to…to…” And the tears spilt. She ran to her father’s open arms.

“Sansa! What happened? Did someone do this to you?” She leaned further into fine clothes. His arms were tight around her. “Sansa?” She shook her head, remembering herself that she should not lie. Not only it was unbecoming of a lady, but she was a Stark and she had to hold up to the honour her father taught her.

“She was hiding from the lords in the courtyard, my lord,” Brienne’s muffled voice reached her.

“Sansa was playing a game with the children that required her to escape them. Doing so, she jumped into the courtyard and ended up dirtying herself in the mud.”

Her father’s hands were heavy on her shoulders as he pushed her away lightly. Father fell to one knee in front of her, coming level headed with her as his big hands caressed her dirty face. “What the Lady Brienne says, is it true?” Sansa nodded, closing her eyes tightly. “Then, what ails you?” Sansa gasped, directing her eyes back to her father with a suspicious stare before fixing her face into the serene gaze of a lady. She tried to ignore the fact that her lips were trembling into a pout and she was covered in mud, sweat and tears.

“A lady…” She snuffled. “A lady shouldn’t be rolling in the mud or appear before the lordships visiting her home in such a way.”

Father and daughter exchanged longs stares, only broken when Ned chuckled lightly, shaking his head as one of his hands rose to pet her hair. He brushed a few strands of auburn hair behind her ear. Ned looked down at her little feet caked in mud, almost completely hidden by the giant cape on her shoulders. The Lord of Winterfell slowly raised his eyes up to meet hers.

“But,” He took his hands away from her, a slight smile on his lips as his eyebrows rose. “Did you not have fun, Sansa?”

Sansa blinked at her father, in shock. She waited with baited breath for him to reprimand her, to say how she did wrong. The reprimand did not come.

“No, no! A lady…” She started to deny it, shaking her head.

“I do not want to know what a lady should like, daughter,” He interrupted. His cool grey eyes met her blue ones. Not for the first time, Sansa wished she’d look more like him. “I want to know if you enjoyed yourself.”

She should say no. It was what a lady would say. But father was asking _Sansa_. Her eyes spied the beautiful Lady Targaryen behind him. Lady Daenerys had walked away from her guest and Lord Stannis, stopping beside her husband with a kind smile on her lips. Sansa saw no disgust or nothing of the likes of her state of appearance. She looked back, finding the kind woman in armour looming behind her like her personal knight. Brienne smiled down at her, charming blue eyes glinting with warmth.

“I…” She turned back to her father. Her eyes met his once more and she could not contain herself anymore; not when he looked at her so earnestly. “I escaped them all, father! Even Arya!” She fisted her hands tightly, jumping to her feet and smiling widely. “I jumped from the stone edge! I did it right, didn’t hurt myself! Just like Robb, and Theon, and Arya, and Jon…” Her eyes strayed to the bastard in question. Jon had a relieved smile on his face, his eyes were soft as he nodded at her. Father was nodding along to her words too, a small smirk on his lips she thought hinted a pit at pride for her. “And, and…And I was never tagged!” She narrowed her eyes at him, clasped her hands daintily in front of her and raised her chin up, smirking at him proudly. “Not once.”

Ned Stark laughed loudly, as did Jon and Daenerys. Brienne chuckled lowly, and Sansa even saw Lord Stannis and the olive-skinned guest smirk to each other.

“Good, good, my child.” Her father got back on his feet. He was very tall, Sansa barely went past his belly. She hoped she’d grow taller soon. “A little bit of mud shouldn’t bring you to tears,” Sansa almost scowled. A little bit of mud! “You are a summer child, do not waste your summer years.” Sansa nodded at him. She would reflect further on his words tonight. Father was always wise.

“Now, my lord,” Brienne spoke, calm as the as the first snowflakes falling slowly from the grey skies, even as her cheeks reddened once more with their attention. “I promised Lady Sansa that she would be in my dear friend’s capable hands,” Her eyes moved towards the young couple. “I think she was quite excited for the chance to be pampered by the illustrious Lady Targaryen.” It was time for Sansa to blush. She turned her head to stare at Brienne, mouthing a strangled what that the woman promptly ignored.

Lady Daenerys barked out a laugh, stepping forward and around Lord Stark so she could grasp Sansa’s hands. The young girl gasped slightly, staring down at the moonlit asking grasping at her. Her hands were delicate and small — but callused. Daenerys had strong hands. They weren’t…they weren’t those of a highborn lady.

“But of course, my dear friend,” Sansa looked up, meeting her violet gaze with her own wide blue one. Daenerys winked at her, the mischief in her making her whole being shine. She was so beautiful it hurt. “And I bet your need to also be pampered by this illustrious lady has nothing to do with it?”

Sansa didn’t actually listen to Brienne’s answer, she was far too busy staring at Daenerys. She had never met someone so…otherworldly. Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane had spoken of the Valyrian race, of how they were mysterious, powerful and alluring people. Sansa had not been paying enough attention, she was sure. But even if she had paid as much attention to their words as she had to her songs, she still wouldn’t be prepared for how stunning Daenerys was.

Her hair was like snow. But it wasn’t like old people’s hair, frail and colourless. The Targaryen’s hair was like silver and gold in their purest form, her hair was plenty and heavy, a cascade of waves made of the moonlight and sunlight both. It glinted like the sun and the stars, and her skin was so smooth. It was very light, and with her fair hair, it made her glow ethereally. Her eyes though…they were like the wild lavender in the flower fields outside Winterfell, in the Wolf’s Wood or along the Kingsroad in the North-most areas. Her eyes were bright and genuine.

Sansa wondered how this girl couldn’t be anything other than a princess.

“Shall we, my lady Sansa?” Sansa blinked, meeting the older girl’s gentle gaze with a shy one of her own. Daenerys’ arm went over her shoulders, turning her away from the room and guiding her towards the Library’s entrance.

Sansa and Brienne spent the day with Lady Daenerys, trying every different dress and clothes she could offer, from all over the world.

 

•••

 

For the next days, Sansa saw less and less of her bastard brother and his beautiful wife. Sansa saw little of her _parents._

Robb had told her they were dealing with ‘Queenscrown stuff’ and that she shouldn’t worry, it was just the way thing were done. Arya had told Robb he was being stupid, and for once Sansa agreed with her, even if silently.

Sansa did her best to mingle and get to know their various guests. She tried particularly harder to approach the princesses and princes of the East, with their strange clothing with many jewels and furs to keep the cold at bay. The Northern people didn’t use jewels, or elaborate hairstyles likes the Southerners or Easterners. Metal only cooled them quicker, and anything other than a simple braid would leave the skin open to the climate. If one of those Princesses of the other continent ever stayed out in the cold with their ears out, they would soon get frostbite, her father would say. Long hair in the North, for men and women both, was almost a must. Even though Sansa had clear conscience over these facts, ingrained in her since she could even understand any word spoken to her, she dreamed of draping herself in Myrish silks, Summer Island pearls and Yi Tish jewels. She wanted metal corsets like the one from the people from Qarth, or Qohor, or Tyrosh, or the Westerlands!

There were so many options! So many different styles…The world had so many things to offer, so many things for her to experiment. Sansa, in the last days after her meeting with the Tarth Lady, questioned just _why_ she had to stick to one set of rules, one set of culture. They could have so much more, _make_ much more. The velvet from Lorath could warm her much than _wool._ The gems up in Jon’s mountains could give them the world. Sansa dreamed and dreamed, and the more she did, the more she _wanted._

Gods forgive her, but she wanted more than she ever did. She wanted those lavish dresses. She wanted to stand in the presence of the world. She wanted to be known, to be great, to be renowned. King’s Landing seemed so small a dream now that she had _seen_.

Lady Catelyn did not see it though. Her mother made her best to hold them all tight around them after the tag debacle. That night, Sansa received the worst scolding ever, but even though she felt a thin strike of fear, not once she felt remorse or guilt for her actions. Every time she thought about opening her mouth and promising to never attempt something like that again, her father’s laugh and warm eyes flashed in her mind’s eyes and she saw herself deflating, lowering her head as a good girl should, but never promising what she knew her mother wanted her to.

So, with a silent apology to her mother and the gods, Sansa set to work and mingled with the guests. She played with the children. She giggled with young girls just like her, most of them could not even speak the common tongue, as they watched the young knights and house heirs sparring in the courtyards. Every night, she danced with many people. But most of all, she danced with Jon and Robb, and with her father and Uncle Benjen.

Sansa, in the quiet moments after the feasts, when she was laying on her large bed and the sleep had not yet blessed her with sweet night dreams, thought that what she was living was, perhaps, the life of a princess. Of a queen.

A princess of the North, her treacherous mind whispered. _Queen in the North,_ she dared to call herself sometimes. Guilt always followed, close by a deep longing she chose to ignore.

Sansa _wanted._

A cold morning saw her staring at the retreating backs of Jon and Lady Daenerys as they guided Kevan Lannister out of the Great Hall, a retinue of advocates and servants following the two rich families for what would be one of the most important relationships of Westeros in the future. Lord Stannis followed them, his ever-present court members — Ser Seaworth and the beautiful Lady Melisandre of Asshai — close on his heels as the Lord of Dragonstone talked lowly with her father. Sansa could see the calculating stares given to the group as they left the Hall.

The Lannister and the Targaryens were to negotiate that very day, and it promised many things for their future. Good and bad, Sansa was sure.

Beside her, Robb huffed loudly, a scowl glued to his face.

“Robb,” She called for his attention, frowning delicately in worry. “What’s the matter?”

Her brother did not answer at first, keeping his eyes upon the crowd breaking their fast beneath the main table’s dais. His blue eyes, so similar to hers, were clear in the early morning light coming through the small glass windows by their left.

“Lord Snow doesn’t have time for us lowly heirs anymore,” The voice came from Theon, who dragged the chair beside Robb where Jon was previously sitting. The Greyjoy boy sat gracelessly, bitting to a piece of bread as he leaned over. “Heir Stark is just bitter his bastard brother is too busy for him.” There was an obvious smirk on his mouth, his voice as mocking as ever. Robb shoved him away from him, getting a laugh out of the Iron Born.

“Shut it, Greyjoy,” Her older brother glared at the other boy.

“Well,” Theon leaned back into the chair, shaking his bread at them. “I’d be busy too if I had the gold the bastard discovered and the wife he got. I’d give anything to fu-” He was interrupted by a hand shoving another bread down his throat as Ramsay tsked at him, resting his forearms on the back of the hostage’s high chair.

“I’d watch your mouth when you speak of my lady, _squid.”_ He snickered with a strange glint on his eyes that Sansa could not discern, but it made Theon pale greatly before he spat the bread out, using one hand to clean his mouth while glaring at the table and coughing.

“It’s a _Kraken!”_ They all ignored Theon.

“What are you doing here, Ramsay?” Robb asked. Sansa snickered quietly, and Ramsay winked at her before answering. She shut her mouth and turned away. Her mother had gone to attend to her duties earlier than normal and was not present in the Hall, but Sansa was still terribly aware that she should not speak with the bastard.

“Eating. Talking.” He stole one piece of cheese from Robb’s plate. The Stark Heir, used to the bastard’s eccentricities by now, only pursed his lips, crossing his arms in front of him and watching as the bastard ate the piece and answered him, cheeks puffed out as he chewed. “Just admiring the view of you lovely Stark-Tully spawns. Speaking about your _fantastic_ Tully lineage,” He squinted at the Hall, one hand shading his eyes as he dramatically surveyed it. Sansa chuckled, snapping her mouth shut when Robb snapped his gaze on her with narrowed eyes. “Where’s your Tully progenitor? The Stark matriarchic? The salmon lady?”

“Wanna be whipped so soon in the morning?” Robb hissed, and even Sansa dared to glare up at the bastard.

“It’s a _trout,_ ” Sansa spoke then, rising to defend her mother.

“Oh my, and that makes such a difference.” Ramsay rolled his eyes. “And don’t fool yourself, _Stark,_ you don’t have the stomach to go with the threat.”

“Go find your master, _dog,_ ” Theon said, disgust evident in his voice. His clear eyes gazed at up at Ramsay with the usual disdain he reserved only for the Bastards of Queenscrown.

Ramsay’s mouth twitched, his eyes widening slightly as well as his ever-present smile. His arms, resting on the back of the hostage’s chair, flexed before his hands gripped tightly to the wood corners of it. Theon flinched away from the Northern bastard, and Robb shifted slightly to cover her form.

“Snow!” They snapped their heads forward, finding Benjen Stark standing in front of their table. The man jerked his head back. “Your lord calls.”

The words transformed the boy, as Jon’s calls usually did. Ramsay snapped up in attention, his back straight and his grin wide. His disturbing eyes were wide with sick joy. He grabbed Theon’s hair and banged his head against the chair, stepping back and disappearing through the side door before Theon got up from the chair in a rage. The Greyjoy ran through the same door, intent on catching the bastard.

Sansa shook her head, sighing. “Doesn’t he know it’s impossible to catch Ramsay?” The bastard knew all the nooks and crooks of the castle. He made a point to know the castle grounds better than even Ned Stark.

“The Greyjoy boy has not the best of minds, Sansa,” Her uncle answered her, making the two Stark meet his kind eyes once more. “If he had, he’d know not to mess with that bastard.” He stepped up on the dais, staring down at her. “Ramsay Snow is dangerous and should not be provoked, remember that.” He nodded at Robb before turning on his feet and leaving the Hall.

Robb huffed again. “I bet he went to meet Jon…” Sansa blinked at her brother.

“Are you jealous, Robb?” Robb turned sharply towards her, his eyes wide and his cheeks red.

“Of-Of course not!” His mouth snapped closed and he faced the Hall once more, shaking his head and furrowing his brows. “Jealous? Of Jon? No!” Sansa bit her lips, trying to contain her snicker at her brother’s expense.

“Don’t be jealous, brother,” She leaned towards him, a slight smile on her lips. “You are the Stark heir still, Jon is a bastard.”

Robb coughed in his cup, drops of honeyed milk falling out of his mouth as he turned surprised eyes to her. “Sansa!” He reprimanded her. She flinched away from him.

“Yeah, Sansa!” Her brow twitched and her face turned sour as Arya sat beside her. “Jon is not _just_ a bastard. He is married to a _princess,_ ” Arya sneered at her, getting one piece of bread and a few slices of cheese and ram on her plate. “I see no prince beside you. And you don’t even know anything other than embroidery!” The younger girl spoke slowly, trying her best to speak properly and with no childish slurs.

The eldest Stark daughter narrowed her eyes at the younger She-Wolf. Sansa turned away from the younger, lifting her chin and posing herself as primly as she could. It brought Arya’s poor posture to light, in comparison to her perfect poise.

“It’s more than _you_ have ever done,” Sansa spoke, her disgusted voice not so different from Theon’s.

“Girls!” Robb shook his head at them, a displeased frown on his face. Arya rolled her eyes and stared back at her food, Sansa sipped at her cup. “For gods’ sake, Lady Daenerys is no princess!” He lowered his voice, his blue eyes searching for those who could have heard Arya. “Don’t speak so, you both know it is a delicate matter.”

“But she’s still a princess. It’s _obvious_.” Arya spoke, rolling her eyes again. If she kept doing that, they would glue to the back of her head and she’d be blind and white-eyed. “All she does is smile and look pretty.”

“Lady Daenerys is _beautiful._ ” Sansa gasped, somehow offended on the older girl’s behalf. “And kind. And smart.”

“All she did was travel around, no big deal,” Arya spoke, condescendingly. Sansa puffed her cheeks, eyes narrowed on the small girl.

“You’re just jealous because Jon now has someone _better_ than you to love _,_ ” Sansa answered, almost spitting the words in her anger. Arya was so indelicate and wild. She had no brains or beauty or manners whatsoever.

The tiny girl gasped, turning to her cup and grasping it. Robb knew what she thought of doing though, and leaned over Sansa to stop her. His hand gripped tightly to Arya’s wrist as he lifted a brow at her. The wild girl huffed but nodded, turning away from Sansa as Robb returned to his chair, falling into it with a tired sigh.

“You are both too much, so early in the morning.” Their older brother shook his head, grasping his cup and taking a big gulp. “Jon and Daenerys are lord and lady now, and these people are here for them. They need to make good business and we should help them as we can. It’s a bless Daenerys is as good as she is.” He said sternly to them.

“You are _so_ jealous.”

“Shut up, Arya.” Robb got up and walked away. Sansa and Arya stayed in their places beside each other and exchanged glances after the heir vanished in the crowd below.

They snorted, giggling as they spoke in unison.

“He’s _so_ jealous.”

 

•••

 

The days passed slowly with the newly married pair always occupied with their various meetings. Since Lady Daenerys wasn’t available — Jon insisted on her always being present to his negotiations, and Sansa had heard about how the guests were shocked about it. Though the women were generally very pleased with his behaviour, Sansa still did not understand. According to Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, it was not a lady’s place to involve herself so — Sansa opted to stick close to her new peculiar friend, Brienne of Tarth.

Brienne was an enigma.

She was pretty, yet not really. She was brave, but yet shy. Kind, but ruthless in battle. She liked to battle but also enjoyed to dress up. She loved pretty dresses but preferred to be in jerkins and leathers.

In short, Sansa simply could not understand or properly deal with the woman.

Jeyne had often laughed at the kind Tarth’s expense. Sansa remembered clearly mocking the woman’s awkward clad blue dress the day of the ceremony. Beth had made jests with her for three whole days, and they had all laughed together. Sansa felt enormously guilty for her unladylike conduct. Brienne was simply too good to be laughed at.

If father knew what she had said about her newest friend, Sansa was sure, she’d be heavily punished for her dishonourable behaviour. She hoped her kindness to Brienne would somehow compensate for her horrid manners before they’d properly met.

“Lady Brienne!”

The woman in question turned away from the sparring group she was watching. Today, Brienne was dressed in expansive leathers and red velvet undershirts Sansa knew for a fact were a gift from Lady Daenerys. The woman’s shy features broke into an open and genuine smile that Sansa was quick to return.

“Lady Sansa, good day.” She bowed to her and Sansa curtsied back.

“Good day!” She smiled brightly, clasping her hands in front of her the same way she had seen Lady Daenerys do, many times. “I was thinking that, perhaps, I could show you our godswood?” She directed her gaze to the ground, blood rising to her cheeks to make her face match her hair.

Brienne smiled lightly, nodding to her before turning to one of the men close to her. “I’ll be out, my lords.” They paid no attention to her and ignored her respectful bow. Sansa scowled at their rudeness.

“Let’s go, Lady Brienne,” Sansa spoke loudly, gathering their attention with her clear speech. “These men are a clearly unpleasant company, to ignore a highborn lady like this.” They snickered. Sansa’s brow twitched and she ignored the way Brienne shook her head desperately at her. “My Lord Father would be certainly displeased with such dishonourable treatment in his own halls.” With that, she knew she had gotten them. They snapped their necks towards them, and Sansa smiled sweetly at them, putting her arm around her friend’s and pulling her away from the courtyard. She ignored the few desperate calls and apologizes coming from behind them.

“My Lady, you really shouldn’t have…” Lady Brienne sighed softly, falling into step with her as they walked through the corridors.

“Don’t bother, Lady Brienne.” Sansa shook her head, giggling in delight as she skipped slightly on her feet. Brienne never missed a step. “You are my friend!” A friend! From the South! Mother could not approve of her, but Father did, so Sansa would persist in keeping close contact with dear Brienne. “Friends help each other, it’s the right thing to do!” Sansa nodded, moving her eyes up to meet her friend’s. “That’s what Father told me.”

Brienne smiled. “Your father is a good man.” Sansa’s grip on the taller woman’s arm tightened, a wide smile surging on her lips that she did not attempt to contain.

“He is an honourable man.” Sansa nodded in agreement.

“I hope one day…” Brienne’s voice stopped, breathless for a moment as her eyes glazed over before she shook her head with a bitter chuckle. “No, it is a silly dream.”

“Dreams are not silly,” Sansa spoke at once, taking a deep breath and smiling while her eyes followed the path of the bright rays of light coming from the summer sun and lighting their path in gold. “Without dreams, our future is meaningless. We would have no objectives. Songs and dreams,” Sansa turned her eyes towards Brienne’s sapphire like ones. They stopped in front of the godswood gate, turning to face the other. Sansa had to look up, bending her neck in a way that the back of her head was almost parallel to her shoulders. Brienne was _really_ tall. “They are important, without them, how can we work for a better future?”

Brienne stood there for so long in silence, Sansa felt foolish. Usually, she would never utter such words aloud. It was unbecoming of a lady to do so, but she felt lighter since her father had asked for _her_ thought, not of those she _should_ have as a highborn lady. Still, it seemed Lady Brienne did not appreciate her words. She _was_ only but a summer child, as Old Nan would often tell them. It was not her place to say such things.

“Forgive me, my lady, I did n-”

“You are right.” The warrior woman interrupted her, a breathless laugh falling from her lips as she closed her eyes and shook her head. “You are right, my lady.” She threw her head back a laughed. It was beautiful sound, deep from her belly and making her whole body shake. The sunlight hit shone upon her blond, short hair and fair skin, and even though Brienne was no stunning beauty, her sheer happiness brought a smile to Sansa’s face.

“So,” Sansa leaned forward, a sly smirk on her lips as she clapped her hands daintily in front of her. “What is your dream?” Brienne smiled at her, her eyes falling to the ground as a blush bloomed across her cheeks until her neck.

“I want to be a knight.” Sansa blinked in surprise. Somehow, she hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t…The kind woman who helped had the same dream as Arya, the sister she liked least of all.

A servant opened the gates, allowing them entrance. Sansa did not want to stand there, so with a small tug, Brienne matched her pace once more as they entered the sacred godswood.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while. The forest area denser, darker and yet more welcoming. Winterfell’s godswood was ancient, it was a magical place. Sansa felt at home there, even more so than at the Sept. The air was fresh and there was so much life in these trees…it was scary and amazing, Sansa understood why her father spent so much time in it.

It brought peace to her.

Brienne inhaled sharply and Sansa smirked slightly. Their guests had seen their heart tree at night, but it never compared to the vision it made in daylight.

Sunlight was turned red as it passed through the bright red leaves of the heart tree. Its bark shone bright, making the red tears of the carved face look like blood. The weirwood, the mark of the North, had a large trunk, its roots perfect to sit upon and gaze at the small pond. The small clearing was alive with pure light and the summer’s Northern chill. The ironwoods, ash and oaks and all other trees that made their godswood swayed in the breeze, somehow seeming to follow the gentle sway of the ancient and magical weirwood.

Her mother feared these woods. Not one of the Stark children shared her feelings.

“It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” She whispered to her new friend, lulled into a deep serenity by the sounds and the sheer presence of nature in the ancient place.

“It’s…” Brienne matched her tone of voice, eyes wide as she turned around and up, looking up at the weirwood’s canopy as they approached it. “Unnerving.”

Sansa giggled, breaking the magical veil that had fell over their heads.

“Most say so.” She leaned back on her feet, craning her next to gaze up at the sky through the red canopy. “Would like to see the glass garden?” She didn’t look away from the blue and red — just like her, Robb, Bran, Rickon and Mother — vision looming above her, unreachable.

“Is there where you keep…”

“Winter Roses?” Sansa giggled, looking at the ground before meeting the embarrassed stare of Brienne. “Yes, it is where we keep the infamous Winter Roses.” She danced away from where they had stood under the weirwood. “Would you like one?”

“My lady! No! There’s no need!” Brienne shook her head quickly, an almost desperate look in her eyes. “I’d not like to impose on you. Those roses…”

“Marked the beginning of the Rebellion.” Sansa continued. She started towards the path leading to glass garden, Brienne hot on her heels.

The she-warrior coughed. “Not so much, my lady.”

“No,” She conceded. “It was the kidnapping of my aunt…” Her voice faded away, her vision blurring slightly as she receded into herself. The memory of the woman’s statue down in the crypts clear in her mind’s eye.

“Lyanna Stark…” Brienne continued. “Kidnaped by the Targaryen prince, Rhaegar. It was truly a tragedy.”

“Yes…King Robert loved her so very much.” Sansa sighed, shaking her head slightly to the unfortunate past. “He went to war for her.” Though, there were times Sansa liked to think her aunt just ran away with the dashing prince Rhaegar. It’d make a wonderful song if so; a forbidden love between a beautiful Northern lady, exotic to the dashing prince. The union of Ice and Fire. But those were silly daydreams which most likely insulted the memory of her dead aunt.

They continued in silence.

There were guards at the small door leading to the glass gardens. They nodded to her and Brienne, opening the door without questioning. Sansa liked to visit the gardens, and it was no strange thing for her to bring her friends as company.

“They are beautiful!” Sansa spoke back to her, walking quickly through the short tunnel. “You’ll see,” The approached the exit, sunlight once more falling over them, blinding for a few seconds before revealing the simple glass structure.

“Oh, my,” Brienne’s breathless words made Sansa stop so she could look back the older woman. Brienne had her wide eyes directed to the giant, but simple, glass house. It made Sansa’s lips twitch for a moment in amusement before she settled for a calm gaze. She tried to keep the composure of a lady of her station.

The ancient glass garden was a giant and simple structure of glass. It was as high as the inner walls that surrounded it. The glass was yellowish, stained by time, but it made nothing to its impressive sight. As anything Brandon the Builder ever did or touched, the greenhouse was a thing of beauty. Vines grew on its walls, low and regularly trimmed. The grass around it was bright green, glistering with dew and bright with life as the thick glass distorted the colours and plants inside. Lavender was planted on the edges near the inner walls and the glass house’s base, beautiful with the fresh grass around it, neatly contained from the dirt paths going around the place.

Smirking, the Stark girl pulled the sleeve of her friend’s shirt. Brienne met her gaze with an awed one of hers, finally managing to break’s Sansa composure. Giggling, the girl pulled the woman through the dirt path leading to the greenhouse, where she knew the closest entrance to the Rose garden inside.

“There are many entrances, for better access. Winter Roses are the most beautiful and one of the rarest flowers, I have read.” She started, excited to show something that was part of her culture. The North hadn’t much that was admired by other Realms, and the frost-like Winter Roses were admired by all. “Only one them is worth one gold dragon in the Town. Every girl wants a wreath of them, and few of them ever had one but I had many!” She stopped suddenly, looking at her over her shoulder with sheepish eyes. “But don’t tell father or mother, they don’t like rose wreaths, you know…”

Brienne smiled sadly at her, nodding. “I understand, my lady.” They stopped infant of one of the glass doors, already opened. Entering, Sansa grinned to herself when her friend’s amazed gasp reached her ears. She let go of the woman’s sleeve and clasping her hands in front of her. She didn’t bother with looking back to see her reaction, directing her eyes up and up as she looked at the great garden surrounding them from the ceiling to the ground. Elevated paths surrounded the walls and crossed the grounds, pots were hanging everywhere and plants grew around every nook and crook. The gardeners walked around, vegetables, roots and fruits and herbs in their baskets. The air was humid and the place was warmer.

Color painted the place different from the dreary North others were accustomed to. Green, dark and light, brown, yellow, pink, orange, red and _blue_. A thing that few knew about outside the North, was that Winter Roses grew and grew and grew, most of the times outgrowing from their bushes and grasping at anything like vines. Everywhere they looked, blue roses could be seen. Among small trees and other plants. But as all in their garden, their presence was carefully trimmed. The true rose garden was to their left and Sansa did not hesitate in guiding Brienne to the Rose Corner. The more they walked, the more present the flowers were.

As soon as Sansa was turning on a curve, where small contained trees were packed together almost as if they were one, she stopped. There, standing casually together in the rose garden, were Jon and Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa gasped silently as Brienne pulled her back, one hand covering her mouth and whispering a quiet ‘forgive me’.

They lowered their backs slightly, Brienne above her as they leaned over, staring at the pair over the tree edge.

Jon held one of Lady Daenerys’ hands as she brought a single winter rose to her nose. The Targaryen lady had her eyes closed and a peaceful smile on her lips, ignorant to the wonderstruck look her husband gave her. Her violet eyes opened slowly, rising to meet his gaze with a warm look of her own that made Jon’s eyes… _transform_. The way his eyes darkened and his lips parted slightly made him look hungry. Jon brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles without ever looking away from her.

Lady Daenerys inhaled sharply, and so did Sansa and Brienne. Sansa could feel one of the older lady’s hands grasping tightly to her shoulder, tugging weakly to bring her away from the intimate moment. But it was useless, she was hypnotized by them as much as Sansa was.

Jon’s other hand took the flower from his wife’s hand. The same hand caressed her arm up to her shoulder and then her neck, pressing his whole palm to the side of her neck. He let go of her hand and she let it fall to his shoulder. He took the rose from where it was tucked against her neck, rolling it in his fingers for a short moment before putting it into her thick hair, amongst the many braids that held her head into a bun. He adjusted it, tugging slightly before his hands cradled her face. Daenerys tilted her face up, her eyes hooded as Jon’s thumbs rested against her mouth and then — she licked him! A strange sound came from Jon then, so deep and different from the soft and sometimes high pitched voice she was used to, Sansa took half a step back. She was going to bolt out of there but then they _kissed_.

Breathing hard, Sansa watched the exchange with wide eyes. She had seen her mother and father kiss, had seen Theon kiss and many other men and women. Chastely in front of and crudely when they thought she wasn’t looking. She had heard songs about kisses, first kisses and last kisses that were so romantic it had brought tears to her eyes. Those songs were what Sansa imagined to be fueled by love and passion and everything she could ever want.

She was wrong because the kiss shared between these two — barely strangers, with no true love story, only tragedy uniting them — was the stuff of _legends_. The way he grasped her face closed to his with abandon, his brows frowning in almost despair or pain, as if he couldn’t get closer to her; it was like the story of those ancient gods, in love with a mortal woman and grasping tightly to their fiery love because they didn’t have enough _time_. The way she hugged him as if he was a warrior and it was the last time they’d ever be together before he parted to a war she knew he couldn’t win; it was breathtaking and heart-wrenching.

They separated, gasps echoing between them with silent words exchanged through heavy looks drenched with confusion. Their brows were arched in surprise and their chests were heaving together as if they were one in body and soul. Jon’s fingers curled around her face and he closed his eyes in what looked like pain, hunching his shoulders and resting his forehead against hers.Daenerys had her eyes closed, a calm smile on her full lips as she hugged him, small digits digging into his clothed shoulders.

One of Sansa’s hands grasped tightly to the bark of the tree. Her skin and fingernails pressing into the wood as she gnawed on her lower lip. She felt breathless, she felt lost and…Was that love? Marriage…They were so _connected._ They were a song made true. No mummer’s play would ever compare to the sheer… _something_ they had. Jon leaned into her as if she was a goddess, absolving him from all his sins. As if she had his heart in his hand and he gave it freely to her. And she hugged him to her as if he was her lifeline; as if she’d let the whole world destroy itself before letting go of him.

What made them this way, Sansa pondered as Brienne pulled her away from the sight. What made them feel so much? How could someone feel _so much?_ Sansa could almost taste all the feelings and sensations they both had, could see it as clearly as the bright red of the weirwood leaves. The Targaryen couple had barely met, but already had a connection could only be described as…otherworldly? Ethereal? _Sacred?_

“They are so in love…” She spoke quietly to Brienne, for once not minding the way the woman was pulling her through the paths.

“Oh, gods, forgive me…” Brienne whispered furiously, shaking her head the whole way. “So young and yet I did nothing to stop her from seeing such things.” Sansa was faintly amused by her distress. If she only knew the terribly perverted things Theon spoke or did when he thought she wasn’t near. “I am a disgrace.” Sansa made her stop right there, planting her feet on the ground in front of the same entrance they had used. She planted her fists on her hips and narrowed her blue eyes up at the woman, finally falling out of her haze.

“You are _not_ a disgrace, my lady.” She spoke with the haughtiest tone she could muster. “They did nothing wrong! There are many men and women doing much more sordid things in the feasts-”

“Who would dare to do so in your presence, Lady Sansa?!” She ignored the outrageous hiss coming from her friend.

“-And to compare Lady Daenerys and Lord Jon’s kiss to those terrible displays is an _insult_ that I shall not tolerate!” She sighed, looking up dreamingly as their tender and passionate exchange replayed in her mind. “They did nothing wrong. They are so…” Sansa looked down, her hands falling heavily to her side as her eyes glazed over again. She could faintly hear Brienne’s exasperated sigh.

“Disgustingly loving, right?” Sansa yelped and Lady Brienne grapes her left forearm, pulling her behind and posing her self in front of her in a protective stance. Standing behind where she had stood was Ramsay Snow. He was relaxed, arms open and running widely at them. It scared her that he was behind them all the time and yet, they had never heard him moving. “They are far too cuddly for some arranged pair supposed to hate each other.” He sighed dejectedly, disturbingly clear eyes lowering demurely as his hands fell to his sides. “I honestly hoped for far more drama than the whole…” He splayed brought his hands close to his chest, curling his fingers and splaying them open as he made ‘puf’ sound with his mouth. “Horny shebang they have going on.” He tsked, shaking his head and crossing his arms as he looked towards the ceiling in mocking disappointment. “But they ended up being really,” He leaned towards them, taking one step forward and winking suggestively. “ _Passionate.”_ He snapped his fingers and pointed one digit towards them. “But you lovely ladies understand what I mean, right?”

“What are you doing here?” Brienne asked, her voice was dead serious, almost threatening. Ramsay usually brought such reactions from people. 

“Well, the right question would be, why are _you_ spying on _my_ lord and lady?” He clapped his hands, and two raggedy boys surged from the shadows. They stood behind Ramsay, both had dark long hair and dirty fair skin. They resembled Jon in some ways, and it was very disturbing. Ramsay leaned sideways, almost parallel to the ground as he searched her with wide eyes and soft smile. “As soon as I saw dear Lady Sansa, I _knew_ things could get interesting, so I let you in, milady,” He cooed at her, the same way she did to the puppy in the kennels. His eyes moved to Brienne, cold and dead as he straightened himself. “But you…Brienne of Tarth,” He smirked. He jutted his chin forward, narrowing his eyes. “The… _Beauty_.” He snickered, and the boys did the same. He stopped suddenly and the boys were quick to copy him. She could see how Brienne flicked slightly. It made her frown at them. “You, are not very welcome here. This place is _exclusively_ for House Stark _and_ House Targaryen members.”

“But I am here with her, Ser Ramsay!” She stepped forward, shaking Brienne’s grip from her arm and walking closer to him. She paid no mind to his cold eyes or Brienne’s call of her name. “Arya brings her friends all the time, why can’t I?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

“I don’t see you bringing Jeyne or Beth here.” He crossed his arms, one hand rising as he tapped one finger against his lips.

“Well, they’ve seen this place plenty of times, Brienne hasn’t!” She started to cross her arms too but stopped herself in time. Instead, she clasped her hands demurely in front of her. “And you are here with your friends, are you not?”

The bastard rolled his eyes as hard as Arya usually did, letting his arms fall to his sides. “They are _not_ my friends and you know very well why I’m here.”

Sansa shifted slightly on her feet as Brienne stepped forward until she was beside her. “You are guarding Jon…” she muttered, pursing her lips and clasping her hands together as she lowered her head.

“Yes, I am his personal guard, milady,” She saw as he took steps closer to them, his dark leather boots shining in the morning light. “And so, I have plenty of reason to be allowed in here. Now, a guest? You know what your lady mother said about guests in the godswood or gardens.” Sansa gulped, suddenly nervous.

“But, Ser Ramsay!” She stopped when he brought his palm up. He cupped his cheek with the same hand, tilting his head into it as he drummed his fingers on his skin. Ramsay stared at her dead in the eye.

“I am no Ser, you know that. And no buts.” He took his hand from his face and pointed out to the glass doors. “Now, go do something. Get muddy again or whatever, just get the woman outta here before I call the guards on her.” Brienne gasped, taking a step away from him.

“Ser Ramsay! There’s no need for that.” Sansa put a hand on her friend’s arm in comfort. Ramsay rolled his eyes, huffing and shaking his head.

“Yes, whatever you say. I’m still head of House Targaryen’s security, I can and _I will_ call the guards if she doesn’t leave.” He made a shooing motion towards Brienne, a lazy smirk on his lips. “Go, shoo,” He leaned forward, whispering. “No one wants you here.”

“Ser!” Sansa reprimanded him. “I brought her here. I _want_ Lady Brienne here.” She dared him to challenge her. Ramsay just chuckled, narrowing his eyes at her. Though there was a smile on his lips — as usual — his stare reflected no joy or amusement.

“I am no Ser, milady.” He spoke slowly, tilting his head and staring her up and down.

“You always played knight and princess with me and Bran and Arya,” She responded weakly, suddenly very much afraid. “You were always the gallant Ser Ramsay remember? You liked it.” The older boy smiled slowly, baring his teeth at her. She thought him similar to the hunter dogs in the kennels, growling at their prey.

“Lord Jon told me to do it, and I did it.” He took a step closer to her, his hands at his sides spasming as if he wanted to grasp something in them. Sansa remembered that he used long double daggers as weapons. Ramsay was one of the deadliest men when the boys sparred. She heard he was brutal, ruthless; that the only one who had enough courage to face him was Jon. Sansa asked herself how he could face someone as intimidating as Ramsay.

“But you liked it. You asked me to call you, Ser,” She gulped. By the corner of her eyes, she saw Brienne closing on her, slowly putting an arm around her shoulders. It looked like she was trying to pass unnoticed by a predator. Sansa remembered that time she saw a cat slowly try to pass unnoticed by the same rabid dogs Ramsay preferred. “You preferred it. You said it was your dream.”

Ramsay bared his teeth at her, snapping his jaw. “ _I lied._ ” He smirked, tilting his head. “Jon told me to entertain you, and I did.” He looked at them both with hooded eyes that were nothing like Lady Daenerys or Jon’s. “That’s all, and right now, you really should scatter. My lord wants to _entertain_ my lady, I’d hate for you two to bother them.”

Brienne turned her away from him and they walked out. Sansa could hear his mocking laugh behind them.

 

•••

 

She distanced herself from Lady Brienne after that.

For the past three days, Sansa kept her head low and her voice lower. She didn’t play with the other guests, she did nothing else than attend to extra lessons with her Septa. In her time with her, Sansa started yet another project, using dyed wool and satin, she started to create a piece that was what she imagined the sea to be. She used icy blue in some places, trying to resemble something close to the northern shores.

Every day, Sansa worked on the piece in silence. Jeyne and Beth, mindless girl they were, made a point to always sit there beside her, even though they clearly wanted to be outside. Sansa thought them silly; if they wanted to go and stay with the guests, they should go and stay with the guests. It was what she told them on this very day, leaving her and Septa Mordane alone in the small room. Usually, Mother would check on her and her works, but, because of the many guests in their home Sansa deducted, she rarely appeared.

Mother spent little time supervising her work, and even less noticing whatever Arya ended up doing when missing the extra classes. It was no problem, Sansa only had to deal with an increase of annoying pranks as revenge for her request for extra embroidery lessons. She could handle whatever mischief Arya threw her way, she really could.

The thing was, Sansa was ashamed of how she behaved. She had disobeyed her mother’s orders and maybe soiled her image as a lady, and then she had spied on a married couple! And then…

She frowned down at the yellow sun she was assembling in the centre of the texture. The truth of the matter was that Ramsay had humiliated her. Sansa couldn’t imagine what Brienne thought of her after such an exchange. How naive and stupid the brave lady must have thought her to be. Ramsay’s words made it seem like she couldn’t distinguish a game from reality, so involved she was in her head and songs.

Often when Jon couldn’t join them in games, Ramsay would appear in his place. Sansa thought then that the bastard liked to play with them, and simply took advantage of his lord’s missing presence to play with them. He promised many things to them and said many others; Sansa how many of them were lies.

Pursing her lips, she stabbed at the embroidery with more force than necessary. The sting on the point of her finger was something she was used to, so she just cringed and brought the digit to her mouth in silence. Staring sullenly at the piece on her lap, she wondered if she looked like Jon when brooding.

Sighing, she put it aside and stood up from her armchair. Septa Mordane’s slight snoring was the only noise in the small chamber. Sansa smiled gently at the woman. She took one of the blankets she had done months ago and covered her Septa with it. A loud snore and twitch of thin lips made her freeze in place, eyeing the old woman suspiciously. Septa Mordane snuggled in the armchair and returned to her light snoring, making Sansa snicker quietly as she gathered her skirts and walked out of the room.

The door closed softly behind her and she took a moment to simply rest on it. Singing dejectedly, she closed her eyes, feeling the telltale coming of tears.

She really was a stupid girl. She should’ve heard her uncle’s warning and to not get involved with Ramsay like her mother said…How come two bastards became so different? Was Jon the same as Ramsay?

_No!_ Her mind shouted in response. She felt faint disgust for ever daring to compare Jon to his manservant. There couldn’t be more opposite boys in their home. While Mother and Septa Mordane told her that bastards were sinful and untrustworthy, Sansa couldn’t help but think that Jon _surely_ wasn’t a bastard, then. He was _everything_ that an honourable and good lord should be.

Jon, with his kind touches and loving gaze and quiet words, was like a _prince._

Shaking her head, Sansa did her best to disperse such thoughts. Gods help her if Mother ever heard something like that from.

Huffing, she pushed herself away from the door. She walked through the narrow corridors for a while, her mind buzzing with worries.

She really needed to apologize to Lady Brienne…

Whispers reached her ears before she turned around a corner, making her stop in her tracks. She blinked for a moment, trying to place the voices. Startled, she identified them as Ramsay and Lady Daenerys. _Gods_! Maybe Lady Daenerys was having a secret affair with the other bastard?! Were they planning to overthrow the throne? Maybe they wanted to get rid of Jon! It would simply not do for her to let them scheme behind Jon’s back.

Sansa would help. woe to those who dared to cause harm to her _brother._

Scowling heavily, Sansa tiptoed forward, leaning a bit across the edge so she could see the pair huddled close. Ramsay was gesturing widely with his hands, his mouth moving fast and his wide with panic. Daenerys was gaping at him, trying to calm him down and gesturing to him to lower his voice.

“That fucking stupid bitch is messing around with the Lord’s stuff!” He threw his hands up, looking exasperated at the ceiling. Sansa couldn’t tell if he was referring to her father or Jon. “ _Documents_! She’s going through documents! And it’s not even about _you_ ,” He hissed. “She almost got to our finances and I wanted to fucking kill her-”

“Ramsay!” Lady Daenerys hissed back at him, clutching his forearms and holding them down.

The bastard glared at her, leaning close. “I almost did but Jon doesn’t like it when I kill those fuckers.” He shook her hold on him, massaging one forearm as he turned to stare at the other side of the corridor. “So I held myself back and concentrated enough to notice she wasn’t messing around with Queenscrown documentation…” His eyes returned to the Targaryen. “She was looking at _birth certificates._ ”

“Birth…?” Daenerys blinked, surprised. Crossing her arms, she nodded to him. “Continue, calmly and _quietly_.”

“She was messing around with Lord Stark’s documentation from the Rebellion. I think she’s onto something, but I don’t fucking know what the hell it has to do with Baelish.” He spat, turning on his feet and making Sansa snap against the wall. She could hear him pacing as he spoke. “I thought she could be looking at something about Lord Stark’s brother or Robb but…”

“Do you think she’s worried about what you said?” Sansa bit her lip. Who were they talking about? Who would dare to mess with her father’s things? “Maybe she’s seeing-”

“Impossible.” Ramsay interrupted her. Sansa could hear the swish of his robes as he turned sharply after stopping his restless pace. “The bitch is, _at least,_ a little bit smart, she wouldn’t be bothered by it for so long.”

“So what is it?” Sansa held her breath, as curious as them.

“I don’t know.” She heard him growl. Sansa could almost see him snarling. “But I’ll fucking figure it out.”

“Do that and go look for Jon. He should be returning from the hunt.” Lord Renly had demanded to go out on a hunt to honour his brother and king. Jon had gone, along with Theon and Robb and Father. Sansa had wondered why his loyal servant hadn’t gone with him, but now she knew why. Ramsay was a _spy._ “If she proves to be prodding too much, tell Lord Stark. We shan’t have her messing around with delicate information.”

He huffed. “So bossy.” She heard as he sighed heavily, that uneasy and panicked tone of his — ready to lash out at anyone — finally disappearing. “Very well, my lady. Go on your way. I feel better now.” And there it was, the lazy and high pitched drawl that was Ramsay Snow’s preferred way of speaking.

“You mean, less prone to murder and treason?”

“It’s, technically, not treason and murder if no one knew it was me.” He snorted and she could hear him walking away. “Go find your little good sister, my lady. Have a nice day!”

Lady Daenerys’ heavy sigh was enough of a sign that the bastard had disappeared. With the knowledge that Daenerys was searching for her, Sansa silently detached herself from the wall. Taking a few steps back, she slowly started to walk forward again, her steps loud and obvious. Soon, she met Daenerys.

“Sansa! Just who I hoped to see!” She was as beautiful as ever, elegant in a heavy gown that must have been Northerner. It was different from all the other dresses she had seen her in. But it seemed richer…were those _amethysts_?! And…she had a silver band in her hair! Sansa was momentarily stunned in silence by the sheer richness she displayed. “I have heard you are exceptional in embroidery!”

Silenced, Sansa nodded distractedly. Her eyes were now completely focused on the dress and accessories. It wasn’t truly _Northerner_ as she had first thought. The design was more daring, more open and filled with different details she had seen only recently with the flood of foreigners into her home.

“Yes…” Her answer was distracted as she kept eyes glued to the piece the older girl wore. The skirt had an inner layer, she noticed. The inner fabric was dark blue with many glistering stones in purples and blues, mimicking the night sky at its best. The bodice followed a similar pattern as the inner skirt, tight and cupping her breasts with its steams shinning with white crystals. There was an inner shirt, separated from the tight bodice, and made of flowing dark blue _velvet_. The sleeves were puffed out, flowing from her elbow down into a slit, as long as the dress itself. It was made of the same material as the inner shirt. The outer skirt was also made of dark blue velvet, falling from her hips and flaring out beautifully, leaving a large front slit to give way to the inner skirt.

“Beautiful, isn’t [it](https://moryartix.deviantart.com/art/Queen-to-be-519314794)?” Sansa blinked, swatting her thoughts about how the seam of gems was especially hard when they were as small and as many as the inner skirt had. She had not yet managed to get to such levels. Blue eyes rose to meet violet orbs. “Jon had it made for me, as a gift.”

“Jon?!” Sansa could not believe her. How could Jon commission something so unique? More importantly, _who_ did he commissioned from to make such a masterpiece?! “Where did send his request? I must know!” Daenerys chuckled, low and sultry as she brought the flowing fabric of her sleeve to her mouth. Sansa was _sure_ she was thinking about Jon.

“Queenscrown.”

“ _What?_ ” Sansa yelped, immediately blocking her mouth with her hands. She looked up at the amused girl, shocked at her own rudeness. She curtsied, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Forgive me, Lady Daenerys.”

“Oh, stop it, Sansa!” She chuckled, walking forward. She clasped her shoulders with gentle hands, directing a kind smile at her. “We are _sisters_ now.”

_Were they really?_ Jon was a bastard…He wasn’t a Stark. They couldn’t be sisters. Jon and his wife were nothing more than disgraced nobles; he a bastard of a Great Lord and she a disgraced princess. Their lands were _the Gift_. They had nothing and were nothing in the eyes of high society.

And yet, they felt like family.

Gulping, Sansa nodded, slowly and hesitatingly at first before she nodded sharply, decidedly. Daenerys seemed to understand that she had come to an important decision, for she arched one eyebrow at her. She tilted her head, a small smirk on her lips as she narrowed her eyes at her.

“I would like one of those.” Sansa tried to speak with the seriousness and arrogance of a full highborn lady. It only made Daenerys chuckle, one of her small hands rising to her lips.

“It is, indeed, very pretty, but I’m afraid you can’t get one so soon.” Sansa gasped, indignant. The older girl grinned, leaning forward and crouching slightly so they were somewhat at the same eye-level. “You see, I plan to have many dresses commissioned already, by the same seamstress.”

Sansa was immediately intrigued. A seamstress in Queenscrown, skilful and ingenious in her designs. And she would be ready to be at the back and call of Lady Daenerys?

She gasped. “She will be your dressmaker? You will have your own dressmaker?” She took a step forward, excited. The Lady nodded, grinning widely now and reaching for Sansa’s hands.

“Yes! Mine and Jon’s!” She straightened, rocking their hands and almost jumping in excitement as similar to what Sansa felt. “Lord Stannis contacted her company to aid us in our dressings! They are very innovative and were happy to find good work with our family.” She bit her lower lip, eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine happiness. “Jon had this made for me, he even asked Lord Stannis for my measurements!”

That made it. Jon Snow of House Targaryen — her _older brother_ — was a true prince. Sansa would hear not one person speak otherwise, and would only settle for a husband _as good_ — no! _Her_ prince had to be even better than Jon. Yes, that would do.

They both sighed dreamingly. Sansa almost let her mind wander to her daydreams when Daenerys’ hands hold tightened. She blinked at the suddenly shy girl, who was now blushing and biting her lips as she stared at the redhead through her eyelashes.

“Jon has given me so many wonderful gifts,” Sansa wondered _what else_ Jon had given her that made her blush so much. “I long to give him something of worth, too.” She raised their laced hands. “Will you help me?”

Sansa was nodding before noticing, promising herself to make the _best_ of gifts Jon Snow would _ever_ receive. She stopped mid-nod, growing and then squinting at her. She shrugged.

“With what could I ever help you with, Lady Daenerys?”

“Call me sister or Dany, Sansa. Please,” And then she smirked. “I want you to make a banner. A personal banner, just for Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all; Blackfish had a personal sigil, Jon can have one too, ok? Also, I have an idea in mind, but sure, I could easily be influenced by you guys. BE CREATIVE! The sentimental value is what matters, so I could surely adapt whatever idea you guys have in the story.
> 
> About the dress, Dany is a fashionista. Clothes are important to monarchs, it sends a message and sets what we call a 'trend' and establish dominance and a kind of superiority *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*. Clothes will kinda turn into a big deal in Queenscrown. Jon's too, which scares me, I can barely describe girly clothes and I have to deal with manly clothes now and it FREAKS ME OUT. My clothes description abilities are null, but I'll try to rise up to the challenge. Feel free to correct me or suggest better ways to describe things. I'll try to always link the original source, and if I can't find it, I'll...keep searching until I find it, otherwise I'm not gonna link it in the story. Sometimes, the clothes I choose inspire me; meaning, they aren't that exact way the picture may show. REMEMBER; I LIKE VISUAL STIMULATION FOR INSPIRATION AND WRITING. So, I see shit and go, ooooh, pretty and shiny I want it in my story!
> 
> Now, this chapter is something of a time skip. It helps us to move along in the plot and introduce characters like Sansa. She has experienced things in this AU that changed her from what we are used to, this chapter shows us those things. Character growth, you guys. You'll understand in the future. It also made us notice how many people and how many different cultures and people are all reunited in the North. Make no mistake, this marriage will be the stuff of legends of the Tourney at Harrenhal kind of levels. Important shit happened here. (Try to come up with a name for it. Dunno how to name for shit.)
> 
> Ramsay is onto Catelyn and Sansa is onto Ramsay and the chain grows. Yay.
> 
> Brienne in here has met Dany, who is like, the best person ever to motivate and support you in whatever. She met this awkward older girl and just...befriended her, thought or her and tried to help her without ever attempting to change who she was. And that's beautiful and gave Brienne chance to enjoy things like dressing up and fighting because Dany was there to show her the way, as young and childish as she was when they first met. We know Brienne, one meeting is enough to get to her heart. Especially a young Brienne.
> 
> Sansa seeing Jon and Dany kissing and snogging was important because gave us an outsider view of their growing relationship. They are very young and have met at such a short amount of time, people will find their passion and affections very strange. Sansa is both curious and scared of such intensity.
> 
> With that said, what you guys of Sansa? Did I do justice to her? She's pretty young, but I find that I like writing her <3
> 
> I think that's it for now! See you guys in a one or two weeks! Shoutout to Tumblr folks! I hear you and I'll post that meta, I swear one day I will! xD
> 
> Don't forget to leave a review!!!!


	7. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya does stuff and makes Sansa cry, as always. Arya cries too, but she swears she’s not some wuss. Also, sometimes it’s alright to be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a rollercoaster and actually fast-paced. Arya is crazy quick, making things roll and being a tight ball of volatile emotions. She is very expressive and the complete oppositive of Sansa. It's a bang writing those two back to back.
> 
> Also, this chapter is something I'm reeeeeeally nervous about. ^^'
> 
> Now for the important stuff...
> 
> THIS CHAPTER IS FOR MAGICMOON111! MY PADAWAN! MY LONG LOST TWIN! MY DARK SIDE! LET'S ALL CELEBRATE HER WINNING BEST CANON DIVERGENT IN THE JONERYS 2017 AWARDS!!!!
> 
> To be honest, she didn't even know she was in it until I told her two weeks ago? Three? Dunno, time is weird. But anyway, I told her I voted for her (obviously!!!!11!) and she's like 'wat' and I'm like 'waaat' and THEN WE FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. It was awesome.
> 
> I'm so happy for her you guys. She's so precious. So precious! Those of you who haven't read Her Life and Her Death, I suggest you do it after reading this chapter! It's aaamaaaazing, and honestly one of the best AU ever made.
> 
> Also, shoutout to Cassidy_And_The_Company! This chapter is for you too and I hope it can brighten your day a little bit! toaquiprashipar, I hope you get better, girl.

“Why do we even need to be here?” Arya grumbled, pulling at the neck of her dress as her whole family stood by the East Gate’s courtyard. She stood in a duckling line with her siblings. Her gown was as suffocating as always and the mud was staining the hem of her cape, her boots and the stupid dress. Arya knew that Septa Mordane would find a way to blame her. “It’s not like we like House Bolton, or they like us.”

“He is father’s bannerman, Arya,” Sansa drawled out with that know-it-all tone of hers. Arya wished she could pull at her stupid pretty braid. It was the same one as Jon’s new princess wife was wearing, Sansa even put in a ribbon. It was obviously not the same disgustingly rich kind as the Targaryen used, but, as always, Sansa made do with what Father allowed her to buy. “We must say our farewells. It’s only proper, as he is our first guest to leave.”

The younger girl rolled her eyes, mouthing Sansa’s words mockingly. Her sister huffed and promptly ignored her. Arya didn’t hesitate in following her actions.

Stark eyes roamed through the Northern crowd gathered in the courtyard. In the bridge overlooking the courtyards, Arya could see the Dornish guests standing beside Lord Stannis and his younger brother. Lord Renly met her gaze and smiled, Arya narrowed her eyes at him and turned away. She moved her eyes back to her Mother and Father, and Robb, as they accompanied Jon and Daenerys to speak with the Bolton lord. Rolling her eyes away from them, Arya leaned forward so she could look at the line of guests a bit to her right.

The big Yi Tish man with his squinting dark eyes, strange armour and sword beside a man with a shocking head of yellow hair. They were huddled together a few paces beside Rickon — her brother was struggling against Septa Mordane’s claws, as he should be —and the yellow-headed man had a cryptic smile on his face as he gazed at the Starks and Targaryens. His eyes were the same squinting eyes of the whispering armoured man beside him, but they were a strange dark grey. Actually, his eyes were almost like Jon’s own dark grey eyes.

Arya had once said Jon had dark silver eyes, but, unfortunately, Mother had been near and had listened to her words and, well. After _that_ shrill tantrum, Arya made sure to never speak of Jon’s pretty face in her Mother’s presence. And Jon was pretty, sure. As pretty as his wife actually.

The youngest Stark daughter turned back to the young pair standing behind the Stark Lord and Lady, huddled close together. His dark cape was glued to the older girl’s own white one, their faces close to each other, lips moving silently in quiet conversation. Arya narrowed her eyes at them, suspicious as she took notice of their shared features. Jon had the Stark colours and long face, but he was far more pretty than their father or their uncle could ever hope to be.

His mother must’ve been some foreign woman.

Yes, she nodded silently to herself. Jon’s mother must’ve been foreign, like Daenerys.

She moved her gaze back to the squinty-eyed duo, leaning further forward so she could better look at the yellow man in golden foreign robes. Maybe Jon’s mother was a squinty-eyed Yi Tish woman, and if she was, maybe she could convince him to run to Yi Ti with her! That way, he wouldn’t have to go to the Gift and rule a boring a castle with a stuck up princess. Jon wasn’t born to sit on a pretty chair or to become some kind of fake prince. He belonged in Winterfell, by her side and Robb’s, and Bran’s, and Father’s.

Surprisingly, the yellow-haired man was already looking at her, clearly ignoring the other man’s furiously whispered words by his side. His eyes were very hooded. He looked like a grinning fox, she decided. His vibrant hair was very slick and smooth, with a long fringe framing his angular face on both sides and a portion of his hair pinned up on the back of his head like the new fruit that had been circling Winterfell; the pineapple.

Arya blinked and the man only grinned. He winked at her, taking on slender hand from his long and bell-like sleeves to put a finger over his mouth. Arya glared and opened her mouth to ask what in the seven hells he meant when a hand grasped her shoulder and yanked her back into line.

She knew that hand better than any of her siblings.

“Lady Arya!” Septa Mordane’s reproachful voice fell over her like needles. Arya narrowed her eyes. _Like embroidery needles._ And that made all of it much worse. “Keep your posture, young lady! Look at your sister, so well behaved while you bend yourself over!” Arya rolled her eyes so hard, it was quite possible they would roll out of her head. Shaking her shoulder from the old woman’s grasp, crossed her arms in front of her with a huff. Septa Mordane kept complaining behind her and praising Sansa as if she was the Mother come again. She pressed her lips together to contain her strangled scream of frustration. She should crouch and make mud balls and throw them at them both, show them how _uncourtly_ and _wild_ Arya Stark could truly be.

“Septa Mordane,” Sansa started, voice low and sweet as her lemon cakes. She’d no doubt just throw more wood into the fire and join the stupid Septa in her tirade, and Arya would have to stand there until Mother came back and reprimanded her too. _Just perfect._ “Please, stop.”

Surprised, Arya and Septa Mordane stared at the redhead with wide eyes. Arya turned towards her Septa, her brows high on her forehead as the older woman shrugged back in response. Huffing, Sansa kept her eyes glued ahead, a faint blush appearing on her white cheeks.

“Very well, my lady.” Curtsying, the Septa seeped back. They remained silent, and Sansa ignored her younger sister’s suspicious looks. Sansa Stark did not defend her wild sister, and Arya Stark did not defend her lady sister; she thought that was their silent deal and Sansa had just breached their usual silent contract making Arya confused in how she should proceed.

“She’s nicer now, isn’t she?” Bran whispered furiously by her side, leaning on her body and bringing his lips closer to her ears. Arya bent her knees just a little, keeping her eyes glued to the blushing redhead beside her. “I think it’s because of Lady Dany,” A scowl almost came to her lips at hearing her name. “She’s been following her like a duckling.”

Huffing, she turned towards her brother, disdain clear in her voice. “And what? Begging for new dresses or new jewels? To take her to her manse in Braavos?” Arya straightened, letting her arms fall to her sides as she moved her eyes to him, shaking her head. “Perhaps Sansa wants to marry _her_ and become a princess herself?”

“Arya!” A hiss by her side made them both look at completely red Sansa and Septa Mordane. Bran giggled behind her and Arya wished more than anything that he’d been born in her stead, that way, she wouldn’t have to stand beside Sansa. “I can hear you both, you must know!”

“How could a lady speak such profanities about her own sister!” Septa Mordane looked ready to explode, turning g purple with rage. She was very prude. All Arya had was to put Sansa’s dreams into words. Everybody in Winterfell could see how she admired Jon’s wife. Perhaps if Sansa married Daenerys, Jon wouldn’t have to go away!

“What?” She moved her head between the two, confused. “What’d I say wrong?” Crossing her arms once, more, she squinting at Sansa, a drawl and clear challenge in her voice as she cocked her head to the side. “Wouldn’t you like to marry her and become a princess?”

“ _That’s not how it works, Arya!_ ” Sansa practically shrieked and then ran from the courtyard. As she disappeared into the main keep,  Arya stood there with wide eyes as the dead silence fell over her shoulders. All conversation in the place had stopped and Arya could just _feel_ her Mother’s glare. Bran’s mocking was evident, just from the air around him and the way his shoulders shook. She thought that it was all salvageable. What more could go wrong?

Rickon, that was.

“Sansan wanna marry Princess! Sansan wanna marry Princess!” Her littlest brother sang, laughing all the while as he fell over a shaking with laugher Bran.

 _Fuck_ , she thought as the shocked gasps of the guests around them echoed in her ears. Arya let her eyes close, her shoulders sagged in defeat as she shook her head in faint denial. Mother would kill her for that stunt.

Opening her eyes, she met her mother’s furious gaze along with her father’s calm and collected one. She watched as Catelyn turned towards the amused Lord Bolton — she wanted to throw mud at his stupid smirk — before marching to her with a furious look. _Busted_ , she thought with a dejected sigh, lifting one arm just before her Mother grabbed it and dragged her away. How did she even know it was her fault? It could totally have been Bran's fault! Or, more obviously she was sure, Rickon’s! Not _every time_ Sansa ran away crying was _her_ fault. Arya could be innocent too.

Arya looked back to see Septa Mordane shaking her head at Rickon. She could see her mouthing the name ‘Arya’ and the word ‘wrong’. It was _her_ who bailed her out, then. Of course.

By the corner of her eye, she saw the pineapple man turned towards her, a wide grin on his mouth as he watched her. Their eyes met and it only made him more excited, so much he looked scary. His eyes looked like silver in the sunlight, and his hair shone brightly like fresh dye. Strands of smooth hair danced with the cool summer breeze, his thin lips stretched wide as white teeth seemed to sparkle. A doll, the man was a pineapple doll.

Arya stuck her tongue out at him, disappearing inside the keep.

 

•••

 

Couldn’t she just run away with Jon and fund a sellsword company? It could be very profitable with Jon’s incredible sword skills. If they managed to convince Bran, then they’d be the best to ever roam the realms. She with her quick foot and wit, Jon with his deadly swords and Bran with his sneakiness. They could call themselves, the Shadow Wolf, working in behind the scenes, silent like the night. Death would envy their work

As her mother raged with Father, Sansa cried in the background, Bran and Rickon played a clapping game sitting on the floor and Robb just sat in an armchair with his head in his hands, Arya used the time to plan her scape.

“Now they will think terrible, sinful things about Sansa! She will never have a worthy husband!” Sansa bawled her eyes out, sitting in Father’s chair — the most comfortable in his solar. Arya thought she was quite lucky — and hugging her knees to her chest. Father kneeled by her feet, caressing her beautiful long hair and whispering sweet comforting words to her. Her brow twitched in faint annoyance as Mother, once more, raved in anger. “This is all because of that boy and girl’s marriage! We should’ve known that someone as…as _promiscuous_ as they would bring such awful things to our children, Ned!”

Father sighed. “The only promiscuous individual in this castle is Theon and we all know that.” Ah, so promiscuous was what Theon was. Arya glared at her mother then, opening her mouth, ready to defend Jon. “And Sansa will certainly have a good husband in the far future, there are many asking for your hand already.” Those words he directed to his oldest daughter, who peeked at him through her fingers with hopeful eyes.

“There were?”

“There were?” Arya asked incredulously. Her family looked at her with deadpan eyes, all of them nodding to Sansa’s clearly distressed form. Arya blinked. “Oh. Of course, there were…” Sansa frowned at her, lower lip trembling as her eyes filled with tears. Arya looked at her father with desperate eyes. _Help! Do something!_

Ned Stark sighed, shaking his head at her and redirecting his eyes back to Sansa. “Aye. Princes from the Free Cities, lords, heirs…You are not unwanted Sansa. Your brother only jested, and he is but a babe. Calm yourself, everything is not lost.” Sansa then nodded, finally letting her legs fall as she sat correctly. Father swept her tears away as Catelyn sat on the arm of the chair, pulling at the wet strands of hair that were glued wetly to her face. “You are beautiful, you all are. My children will have only the best of lives, so don’t cry, Sansa.”

“Aye,” Arya took a tentative step forward, going on the tip of her toes so she could see beyond the top of her father’s heavy wood desk. She rested her arms on it, putting her chin on top of them and looking away. “I’m sorry. I was just angry. I didn’t mean to ruin your life, I swear.” Her mother’s dry cough reached her and Arya sighed in defeat. She turned her eyes towards Sansa, boldly meeting her sister’s clear blue gaze. “Forgive me, Sansa. I didn’t mean to ruin your reputation and chances of…” She scowled furiously, face twisting as she moaned lowly in disgust and then spit the words out. “ _Chances of marriage._ ” The words were said as if they were a sentence of death, which Arya agreed completely.

The Starks sighed while Rickon and Bran fell over themselves giggling. Robb snickered breathlessly behind her, stepping forward until he stood beside her. Her older brother planted his large callused hand on her hair, messing it regardless of their mother’s warning to not mess with her dark tresses.

“Though,” She continued slyly, her eyes moving to each of their faces. “Let’s all agree that Septa Mordane’s face does not agree with that shade of purple.” The boys laughed loudly, bending forward and holding their bellies as they nodded. Sansa chuckled wetly with Father and they all ignored Mother’s amused sigh.

Father got back on his feet, offering his hand to Sansa. Her sister accepted his hand shyly, jumping from his armchair and walking around the table. Robb offered his arm to her and she immediate tucked herself at his side. Rickon ran into Arya’s leg and offered his arms up, demanding to be carried. Arya crochet down, securing him into her arms and standing back up as Bran stood beside her. Mother remained sitting on the arm of father’s chair, smiling down at him when he sat and hugged her wait with a strong arm. The view was disgustingly sweet.

Arya fake retched, making disgusted faces at Rickon, who put his little face into her neck and giggled quietly. Robb stepped on her foot lightly, making her turn to him with a guilty smirk that he answered with a raised eyebrow. But she knew what he meant; their parents had been at odds with each other for a long time now, it was good they were back to the in love pair Arya always remembered.

“My children,” Their father started, making them all turn towards him in attention. “As you know by now, Jon has finally married his match.” Unfortunately, Arya couldn’t help but think. Her lips turned downwards as she tried to contain her scowl. “Soon, he and all of our guests will go further North, to Queenscrown. Usually, as the new lord’s father, I‘d accompany him. But, I…” Father frowned, sighing and then meeting their gazes. “Your mother and I have come to the decision to stay behind.”

“What?!” Arya exclaimed, her mouth half-opening and closing many times before she smacked her lips together.

“Father!” Robb stared, stepping forward and shaking his head as he frowned heavily. “House Stark is the new overlord to House Targaryen of the Gift! Surely we should accompany them?!”

“House Targaryen is _not_ under our rule,” Ned spoke, his face stern as he met his son’s gaze. “House Targaryen answers only to the Night’s Watch. Jon is, technically, of equal footing as a Lord Paramount; all houses who settle in the Gift will answer to him only, and his House has no obligations to the Seven Kingdoms beyond shielding us from what lies beyond the Wall.”

Arya couldn’t tell what Father thought of House Targaryen’s situation, but Mother was clearly displeased.

“But shouldn’t we see Jon’s castle at least once?” Sansa spoke then, gulping and moving her gaze down as she clasped her hands in front of her. “As House Targaryen is now a branch of our own House, we should keep close ties to them…” Sansa would convince father! She was always so good at political and diplomatic classes. Surely, she could convince Father and Mother to let them see Jon just for a little while longer. “We would like to trade with them too! I’ve heard many things about how other families and merchants are planning to settle there to negotiate a good deal for gems and metals…”

“Aye, father!” It was Bran who spoke next, holding the edge of father’s desk and standing on his tiptoes so he could meet the eldest Stark’s gaze. “I would like to see Jon’s new home too.” Jon’s home would always be Winterfell, not some fancy new castle.

“You can’t part us so soon, father! How do we even know this Daenerys is not mad like her father and that she will treat Jon well? Maybe she doesn’t even like Jon.” At her words, everyone turned to stare at her with wide eyes and arched brows. Even little Rickon blinked and frowned at her.

“Arya stupid!” His little hands slapped her cheeks, pressing and forcing her mouth into a pout. “Dany loves Jon.”

“Love is a strong word,” Robb continued, nodding to his little baby brother. “But it’s obvious they are head over heels for each other, Arya.”

“Jon’s very excited about Queenscrown, too! And Dany is even more than him! He lets her into the negotiations and she’s very well liked.” Sansa turned her nose upon her, huffing delicately.

“And don’t try and be nasty about Dany, Arya.” Bran drawled out, crossing his arms and shaking his head at her. “You liked her well enough when she was telling us her stories!”

“Her stories don’t define her own person, thank you very much!” She spoke through her forced pout, trying to get away from Rickon’s hands.

“Yes, but many of your father’s bannermen will remain in Winterfell, and we would like to discuss important things with them.” Their mother added, lips twitching as she watched Arya struggle with an incessant Rickon. “For that, we would like our young children to remain home. None but Robb is fit enough for travel, and it’s a good opportunity for you to acquaint yourself with our sworn Houses, my son.”

Rickon dug his hands into her skin, making her jump a little and scowl at him. She stuck her tongue out and he copied her with a giggle.

“But I know plenty about our sworn Houses!” Robb protested, taking a step forward as he gestured widely with his hands. “Jon has just uncovered great treasure in the North, he is talking with all of these foreigners and all I see as progress! All I see is not only good connections to our House’s future but a growth and power that would secure us through wars and Winters!” His speech ended with him gasping for breath, his chest rising and then falling as he let his head fall forward.

“We. Are. Not. Southerners.” Their father spelt out slowly, low and gravely. “We are not greedy, and we will not advantage of your brother’s fortune to grow rich.” Mother used her lips, getting up from her position by Father’s side to stand behind his chair, lowering her gaze and shutting her mouth like a good and proper wife. Arya hated it; her mother was so much more than a lord’s wife.

“That’s not what I would do, father! That’s not what I see! I will not take advantage of Jon! I will work with him for a better future to both of our houses!” Robb raised his voice, more desperate now as he leaned forward over the desk. “Give me a chance. Let me represent our House in Queenscrown.”

Arya finally managed to wrestle Rickon’s hands after he lost focus on her, sensing Robb’s frustration and looking at him with wide eyes. She fixed her posture, setting her chin high and her back straight like her mother taught her. Bran straightened his stance, crossing his thin arms and locking his little arms. In that moment, she had no doubt Sansa was like her. They all stood tall and strong, supporting their brother silently as he faced their father.

Eddard let his eyes roam through their faces, silent and cold as Wolf’s Wood that surrounded their home. Sweat started to gather on the back of her neck, her muscles were like thin leaves, fragile and trembling. but yet Arya stood by her brother’s side. They stood there for what felt like minutes, one longer than the other.

“I’ll think upon it, Robb. But no promises.” They all sighed simultaneously. Arya moved her eyes to Rickon’s, meeting his wild stare. He lifted his hands and shrugged, showing he didn’t know what was happening as he shook his head, and Arya had to bit her lower lip to keep in a high pitched coo. Rickon was just too cute. “Now, go change.” He sighed, with a tired smirk on his lips. “We have another feast to attend.”

Sansa clapped in delight as Bran groaned. “But we have feasts every day now!” They turned around and started heading out of the solar. Sansa twirling and jumping as she dragged Robb, while Bran slid his feet over the stone and whined. Arya huffed and adjusted her grip on Rickon, turning around.

“Rickon, Arya,” Arya pivoted on her feet, dragging a delighted giggle from Rickon. She met her father’s dark eyes. “Marriage and love can only happen between a woman and man.” His words fell heavily over her head, dragging over skin and stinking of wrongness. Love shouldn’t be contained like that, just like a woman shouldn’t be contained to fit into a mould like they wanted her to. “Do you understand me?” Arya really did not and, usually, she wouldn’t be afraid to tell her father so. But his eyes were very dark and his posture very tense, so she nodded. Rickon stuck his thumb into his mouth and tilted his head, and she nudged him a bit. His eyes met hers and she nodded slowly. Rickon looked back at they father and nodded. “Good.” He smiled, maybe relieved. “Now, go ready yourselves.”

Arya ran out of there, knowing that everything her father had told her was completely wrong.

 

•••

 

Her brother had vanished, _again._

Arya was tired of Jon going away with stupid Ramsay or the stupid Princess. What did she even had that made him so…so…so stupid! Daenerys Stormborn had travelled the Nine Free cities, and she had seen pirates and she had gone to King’s Landing and lived in the ancient Dragonstone. She also was the single most beautiful being Arya had ever seen, but that counted for nothing really. Arya could bet she was as empty-headed as Sansa! Maybe even _worse_ than Sansa.

She shuddered. Someone _worse_ than Sansa was obviously a terrible person.

Her eyes roamed through the crowds, searching for a familiar a face. Maybe she could find someone to play with. Her usual friends were occupied and the servants had been chastised by Lady Catelyn enough in the past days that none would dare to play with her. A true bother, that’s what the Targaryen marriage truly was.

Sansa’s tinkling laugh reached her ears one more time through the buzzing crowd and Arya wised more than nothing push a piece of bread down her throat and just make her _shut up_. Everyone was so perfect, so amazing, so talented; while Arya was just Arya Horseface. A scream was stuck on the back of her throat, ready to be let out and face the world.

Her back dragged on the back of her chair as she slid down in it until only her eyes were visible through the table’s edge.

If she disappeared, would someone notice? Would someone care? She was no Sansa, being the pride and glory of House Stark; or Robb, gallant and strong and brave. Would Jon notice her missing? Probably not, he was too busy with his new bride. _Oh,_ she thought dully, attentive eyes accompanying the couple twirling among the other dancers, _there he is._ Jon had turned out to be quite the dancer after all the feasts they had. Every night he would dance with his Lady Wife, and every night the couple would enchant the Great Hall.

Their grace was obvious in the way their feet moved swiftly, never stepping on each others' toes and always manoeuvring their moving bodies between the guests with flawless footwork. Jon had a strong arm around her waist and held her hand aloft very carefully, and with time he had begun to guide her with the confidence of a…

Arya sneered.

 _Of a prince,_ she huffed, crossing her arms petulantly.

“Have your eyes found something unpleasant, my lady?” A sly voice with an accent she had never heard before came from above her. Arya let her head fall back against the back of her chair, finding the hovering face of the pineapple man that had laughed at her the day Lord Bolton had departed.

She straightened herself, uncaring by the man hovering and banging her head against his nose. The man snapped away from her, bending over with his hands holding his nose. There was a faint pain on the top of her head, but it was worth it to see the strange pineapple man in pain.

“You are being a creep.” Bored, she sat perfectly straight, her legs crossed and her hands poised on her knees. She tilted her head, like her mother, giving him an unimpressed stare as she eyed him from head to toe. “Don’t get any silly ideas, I’ll have you hang.” Mother had told her that if she ever met a strange guest being too creepy, she should say so.

The golden-haired man gasped in pain, one hand pressing against his nose straightening himself with a huff. He shook his head and looked down at her innocent form. She kept her eyes wide open and a Sansa smile on her lips. The man nodded to her, pulling the chair beside hers and sitting.

Arya turned to the table and got the fork and the knife, putting some cheese on her plate. She stopped, looked at the man and then at the knife in her hand. She exchanged her cutlery so her knife was held by her hand closer to him. The man chuckled.

He put his elbow on the table, supporting his chin in one hand as he watched her eat. “You have balls, I’ll give you that.” Arya stopped cutting the cheese — never mind that there was no need to cut the cheese — to look at him with scandalized eyes. The man smirked, lifting an eyebrow at her. “Now, don’t be coy. I’ve seen you saying worse things with your peasant friends.” Arya would put her blade into his pretty mouth if he dared to tail her to her mother.

“Were you stalking me, my lord?” She asked instead, not showing how scared she really was. “I’ll have you hang.”

He chuckled breathlessly. “I heard you the first time, _zoklītsos._ ” Arya blinked, frowning in confusion.

“What’s that? What did you call me?” She turned to him, her cutlery pointed up. “You’re a foreigner. How many languages you know?” She tilted her head, lifting her chin. “Daenerys knows more than five.” She wasn’t sure about that, but the man didn’t need to know that. His lips twitched.

“High Valyrian, little one. You are very curious.”

“You talk funny. Who are you?”

The man stared at her in silence for various seconds before he barked a loud laugh, clapping his hand as he threw his head back. Arya felt insulted.

“Hey! Don’t laugh at me!” She threw her cutlery on her plate and crossed her arms, turning towards him. “You are the weird one here!”

The man shook his head again, looking at her with suspiciously glinting grey eyes. His eyes were really squinty.

“I am a mere province lord.” A bitter smirk graced his lips. “Though I aim to become the next great emperor of Yi Ti.” His quiet confession, daring and promising blood and war to conquer an entire empire, fell easily through his lips. The other Yi Tish guests went on ignorant of the man’s promise. And it was a promise. This man would drag the entire empire into war to obtain what he wanted. The silence dragged heavy between them for a long time, he lost in his own thoughts as Arya’s mind whirled trying to figure out what he wanted and what he gained in telling her something so daring. It went on until she couldn’t endure it anymore.

“You are bloody mad.” And then he laughed, he laughed and laughed and laughed. Arya was definitively weirded out and turned away, leaving him alone with his hysterics.

She directed her gaze back to the dancing crowd, only to found Jon and Dany following Ramsay out of the Hall. Arya looked at the man beside by the corner of her eye. She saw him cleaning his eyes, shaking his head as chuckles still escaped from his mouth. She pushed her chair away from the table, uncaring by the startled looks directed at her, and bailed out of there.

She twisted through the crowd, sure-footed and quick to avoid attention. It wouldn’t do to be caught by someone, especially her mother or Septa.

Arya exited the Great Hall by the same way she had seen the trio go. Stopping for a moment, she looked both ways, sharp eyes coughing the hem of Daenerys’ dress disease ring on a turn. She did not wait to follow them, gathering her skirt up and running. She turned on the corner, her slippers making her slid a bit. Yelping, she fell to the ground, hands hitting the stone floor and stopping her from falling face first.

She bit her lip, shoving against the floor and using the momentum to get back on her feet and direct her gaze forward. She could see Ramsay guiding them into the dark corridor, a single candle in his hand as Jon and Daenerys walked briskly behind them. She was in clear view of them.

The darkness hid her as she crouched by the wall, far enough that she knew they couldn’t see her in the little, shadowed nook in the stonewall. Daenerys looked back once, quickly and paying no heed to her little form. Smirking, she watched them disappear into another curve. She bolted towards their direction, now sure they were heading out and afraid to be followed.

Jon was awful at being discreet. Arya had spied on him and Ramsay so many times, it was actually funny. Sometimes, she and Bran would joke they just got too distracted by each other and their messy schemings that they simply couldn’t tell when they were being listened in.

The chase went on for a short moment, quick and entertaining as it always was. Ramsay many times stopped to speak with a few of his boys. Some of them even noticed her passing by, but those were the ones she had deals with, and they only nodded to her. Between all of their siblings, Arya was the closest to Jon beside Robb, but their bonds were very different. Jon had made clear very soon that Arya should not be harmed, and that he trusted her implicitly. It amused her to no end that his orders backfired on him, making Arya very well known amongst his guards and servants. Rare was the occasion that they stopped her from approaching Jon.

All but one would stop her on games. And that one, the newest member of Jon’s guard, was Satin.

As a hand shout out of the darkness to stop her from approaching the trio, — who had finally stopped just on the other turn — Arya growled in annoyance. The grip on her shoulder was tight but gentle as the older boy turned her around to face his form, hidden by shadows and the back signature coat of Ramsay’s boys. Satin was the prettiest of Jon’s guards and, as Ramsay insisted, of similar appearance to the young lord.

The boy had arrived six moons past, from Gulltown to Queenscrown, searching for a job there. He was chosen to be put into Jon’s household by Ramsay, who kept Jon’s personal servants of similar appearance to her brother. Robb had once said that it’d help to hide Jon himself in tough situations, especially when they’d gone hiking in the mountains or adventure through the woods of the Gift.

Satin, at first, was very scared and had strange behaviours and customs of the South. Mother had forbidden all of them long ago from ever dealing with Jon’s growing band misfits, but she emphasized her order once more after Satin’s arrival. It had something to do with his past, and later Arya — listening to other talks around the castle — had learned he had been a whore. She had yet to figure it out what whores did, but it seemed very bad; or good, it really depended on who you asked. Yet, none of that stopped her from before befriending him or threatening him from ever betraying Jon, as she did with every one of his servants.

Even Ramsay, but that wasn’t a nice memory at all, it made her stomach sank and her body freeze as if she had taken a cold bath at night. Arya swatted those thoughts away and focused on the boy stopping her from following her brother.

His pretty face smiled down at her with clear exasperation and she responded with a full scowl that did nothing more than bringing a chuckle out of him. “Milord wouldn’t like to know you were listening in on him again, Arya.”

“Then he should work on his skills. It’s far too easy to, why should I stop doing it?” She sighed, crossing her arms and lifting an eyebrow at him. She had a point and she would not back down. “Honestly, I’m doing him a favour.”

He chuckled, crossing his own arms and cocking his hip to one side. “A favour, you say?”

“Yes.” She nodded sharply, taking a deep breath and holding her own against his shrewd stare. Satin was the most clever of all of Ramsay’s boys, and maybe that was the reason he kept him around more often than any others. Satin was not the best with a sword, but his mind more than made up for it. He had often given her tips on how to fight when he was not busy with his many duties. “He needs someone to watch out for him, you know? To keep him on his toes and be sure no one is following him since he obviously can’t.”

“Arya, you know we _allowed_ you to spy on Jon because he didn’t really mind it if you did it, right?” No, because Jon never knew she followed him. Arya rolled her eyes at Satin.

“No, Jon is clueless. He would never know if I jumped on him.” Satin smiled again, his delicate features soft as he looked down at her.

“Arya Underfoot can only be noticed if she so wishes…” His words didn’t sound so sure and she felt rightfully offended.

“Of course!” She uncrossed her arms, putting her hands on her hips with a snort. “I am the best at what we do.” She pursed her lips, her shoulders falling slightly. “I may not be a perfect lady, like Sansa, but I am good at things too, you know that!”

His lips twitched and she just knew he was laughing at her misery. It hurt, but she would admit it to no one, under no circumstances. She wasn’t _Sansa,_ crying every time someone said something about her that she didn’t like. She would’ve probably dried up if that happened. So, she just punched him.

Satin bent over in pain — she was Arya Stark and she knew where and how to punch to make it _hurt_ — and she ran around him. She entered the corridor only to find Ramsay, Jon and Daenerys waiting there.

“It’s not what we thought, she’s been asking Luwin and-” Jon’s main manservant stopped talking when Jon, facing her, directed his gaze away from him to fall upon her. Ramsay looked over his shoulder at her, making a double take before he turned around to face her. Daenerys had her back to the stonewall and kept moving her eyes between Arya and Jon.

The whore boy from Gulltown came running and gasping. He stopped behind her with a halt that almost made him fall on top of her small form. “Milord!” The slight shake in his voice made her twitch for a moment, unsure how to proceed. It wasn’t usual for her to be so barred from her brother. “Forgive me, I tried to keep her back.”

Jon remained silent, his eyes glued to her. Dark and brooding, his grey eyes — she used to think they were silver. Now, she asked herself how she could ever have thought so. — pierced her like daggers. He had never looked at her in such a way. “Arya,” He started, his voice low and careful, drawling his Northern accent. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“How could you not have stopped her, Satin?” Ramsay threw his hands over his head, corners of his mouth turned down in displeasure.

“I tried, milord. I really did. But…” She heard him take a step forward but Ramsay was already walking around her and taking him away.

“Come, let’s talk about your incompetence and let Jon _finally_ deal with this huge breach of security he allowed to fester for fucking years…” His grumbling disappeared behind her, Satin’s clumsily steps echoing in the silence as he was dragged forcefully away.

At first, Jon looked like the Jon of her memories. Standing alone, brooding and pretty and watching over her from a distance. But then the frame broke, the memory shifted as Daenerys slowly moved to stand beside him. He did not stand a little bit in front of her or behind her, to protect or to loom over. She did not step back as a dutiful wife or stepped forward like Arya — Because Arya had to stand on the front line. She had to step forward and make them _see_ _her_ because otherwise, she would remain forever invisible. — would.

They stood beside each other. Together, united and equal like she wished to be with her brothers. And; even though Jon never took his eyes from her, she could see how synched he was to the tiny older girl by his side. Arya could see the way how he seemed to stand taller, fuller and stronger and _better_.

It came to her then, what was wrong in the picture. What was wrong with her older brother, the half-brother, the bastard brother that meant more to her than anyone else had ever.

Jon wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t alone, he wasn’t unwanted. He wasn’t behind her or hidden or withdrawn somewhere they couldn’t see him. Arya didn’t have to look around to notice him, didn’t have the absolute knowledge that she was the one he could connect best with. It wasn’t _her_ standing by his side, supporting him and befriending him and _being with him._

She felt a sting down her throat and her eyes were wet. Her mouth trembled slightly when she opened it to speak and she gasped. “Why do you have to go…” She bit her lip, shook her head as hard as she could and closed her eyes even harder. “You belong here…” One tear slipped and she slapped one hand forcefully against her cheek as if it would stop her pain from flowing out. “Thi—Things don’t ha-have to chan-change…” A sob came out and she bit harder on her lip. She heard him take one step forward and she shook her head, slicing her hand through the air in front of her. “No! You stay there! You—You will leave! You don’t want me anymore! Why…” She blinked at the ground, crying so much her vision was blurred. Her sobs were so strong her whole body shook. Wet and messy and so unnecessary, just like Sansa. “Why couldn’t you just…”

“Arya…” She covered her face, shaking her head again and again. She refused to let him see her cry. She refused to let _Daenerys_ see her cry. “Arya, I’m not abandoning you…”

“Yes!” Finally, she stomped her foot down and looked up at him. His eyes were shiny in the dim firelight and he was much closer to her now. She wanted to throw something at his stupid face. “Yes, you are! You are leaving me for _her!_ ” And then, she pointed at Daenerys. She kept her arm shoved in her direction. It made something in her _scream_ and _rage_ at how all the other girl did was close her eyes and lower her head. Like she was asking for forgiveness, or as if she felt sorry. “And, and, and what will there be left for me? I’ll be alone and who will teach me how to fight?” Something broke and the tears just fell harder. Defeated, her shoulders loosened and her arms fell weakly to her side. “Who will believe in me?” Her brows buckled and she looked down, gulping. “Who will be there for me?” She hugged herself tightly, back bowing and chin tucked inwards. “I wanted you to stay here! Then,” She sniffled when he put his hands — large and callused. She knew his nails were short because they were kinda weak and always broke. — on her shoulders. “Then we could be together. I could spy on you and fight with Ramsay and try…” She sobbed, directing her gaze up and meeting his dark and sad eyes. “And try to sneak up on you, and you would let me and then we could go hunt wildlings and go to the mountains meet with the nomads and…”

“Arya…” He shook his head and Arya _knew_ he wanted to cry too. Jon was always such a wuss. He had always been the dramatic one, the melancholic one who would stare into the distance with tears in his eyes.

“Why can’t you _stay_?” Her words were only for them both, charging the air between them as Jon put his hands on her cheeks, caressing her tears away.

“I…” He sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t make me do this, Arya. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

It made her furious. How could he say something like that? He just needed to tell her what he wanted. It was simple. _Yes, I will stay with you, Arya._ Simple answer. He just had to do it. He just had to say it. It was the honourable thing to do. He would keep his word once he said it. _She needed him to tell her he would stay._

“It’s not difficult…” She pressed her lips into a thin line, her arms going around his waist as she held tightly to his leather jerkin. “All you have to do is stay here, with me, and Robb, and Bran…Stay with us, Jon.” She gulped, a small, hopeful frown twisting her features and making a tear roll down his cheek. Jon directed his eyes up, a heavy sigh falling from his quivering lips. “Please.”

Jon shook his head, breathing hard. “I can’t…” He set his jaw, grinding his teeth together as his hands let go of her face, falling to his sides. He leaned forward, full lips laying a soft kiss on her forehead. “I won’t.” And he stepped back, never breaking eye contact with her.

“That’s not fair…That’s not fair!” She stomped her foot again, hands fisting so hard she thought her fingernails would pierce her skin. “You were supposed to stay with _us!_ ”

“Arya…” Daenerys finally stepped forward, one hand lifting towards her.

“No! Shut up!” She yelled, tears no longer falling, only a numb kind of sorrow and fury left. “It’s all your fault!” She sneered at her, taking one step back away from the pair. “All your fault!” And she turned her back on him. She paid no heed to Jon’s anguished calls or to Dany’s strangled apologize as she ran from them as fast as she could.

At the very end of the corridor, near the turning edge, leaning against the wall with crossed arms and a smug face, was Ramsay. Arya stopped, looking up at him with wide and hurt eyes. He smirked, cruel and mocking.

“Grow up, Horseface. Things change, don’t you know?” She bared her teeth at him, spit at his face and ran to her rooms.

 

•••

 

Changing was the scariest thing that could ever happen to her.

They were happy, the Stark siblings, a misfit fit of clashing personalities and colours and origins that somehow just _fitted_. Even the outsider like Theon and Ramsay, they were all a team. Arya bothered Sansa, Sansa fretted over them all, Bran would climb the roofs above them, Robb lidded them with Jon, Theon and Ramsay were just there being assholes, little Rickon was running wild around them. Mother and Father would always be there for them, guiding and representing and laughing with them. Mother hated Jon, yes, but it didn’t make him any less family. Ramsay was like a stray dog that only really liked Jon but the family had to deal with too, but that was beside the point.

Jon wanted to _leave._

 _Why?_ She kept asking herself, shouting angrily and punching her pillows as she kneeled on her bed. She kept punching and punching, ignoring her scared handmaid as she finally left her room.

What Daenerys had that made her remotely attractive to him, beyond her pretty face? Was it the fact that she travelled around? Arya was sure Father would allow them to make a tour. Was it the fact that she was giving him a castle? Jon could rule Winterfell with Robb! Was it because he had found some gold up in the mountains? He could take care of that while still living in Winterfell!

His marriage was useless! Useless!

_You’re just jealous because Jon now has someone better than you to love._

She punched the pillow one more time, making it finally give and explode soft feathers in her face. Arya gasped for air, letting her head fall forward until she tucked her chin close to her chest. One tear fell and then another and soon a sob came out.

It didn’t take long for her bend over her legs until her forehead was touching the bed. And then, she bawled her eyes out.

The pain was too much. Too much. Jon was leaving and he _wanted_ to go. Arya thought he didn’t like the girl. She had thought they were safe, that maybe it could all be cancelled. Maybe Jon would prefer to stay in Winterfell with her. And now? No she couldn’t even go with him, and he was going away and that stupid girl was taking him away.

It was just not fair.

A knock on her door made her grit her teeth and shout, “Go away!” A sob came up again and she put her arms over the back of her head, pressing her face against the mattress. The person knocked again. “GO AWAY!”

They ignored her plea and opened the door. She felt the humiliation growing inside and cursed the damned handmaid for not bolting her door. She heard the person closing the door and then slowly approach her bed. The mattress dipped slightly with their weight, and one large hand pressed lightly between her shoulder blades. Arya lashed out, pushing herself up onto her knees and shoving the person’s hand away.

Robb’s worried face stared at her, inquisitive blue eyes somehow already knowing. Arya gritted her teeth, barring her sobs from spilling out of her.

“What is it?” She hissed, fisting her hands on top of her knees.

“You finally gave in,” He spoke, gently and softly as if she was some fragile lady needing coddling.

“I did _nothing_ like that!” She rubbed one arm over her face before facing him again. She dared him to tell her no.

“You did.” He nodded, putting one elbow on one knee and supporting his chin on his hand. “You’re crying like a baby now.”

She threw her busted pillow at him, making even more feather fall prettily around them. She crawled towards him and started banging her fists on him.

“I’m not!” He straightened, making her fall to his lad as he held her wrists. “I’m NOT!” She thrashed against him. He brought her close and hugged her tightly. “I’m not…” She sagged, gasping for air and trembling all over. Robb nuzzled her hair, hugging her close.

“It’s alright, Arya.” His breath hitched and his words faltered. He hugged her close and tightly. Arya put her arms around him too. She held him as tight as she could. “It’s alright to be sad, little wolf.” She turned her face into his neck, pulling her legs so she could straddle him. “I’ll miss him too, you know?” Arya wept, fingernails digging into his clothes the same way Robb did to hers. “But you know our Jon,” He chuckled wetly, taking a deep breath. “He’s all about duty.” Robb pulled away from her and she looked up at his sad eyes. “He won’t abandon the people of Queenscrown.”

“But…Daenerys…” Robb shook his head, closing his eyes and chuckling again.

“You’ll understand one day, Arya.”

“But I wanna understand it _now._ ” She protested, crossing her arms.

Robb smirked at her, nodding distractedly. “Don’t be so harsh on them, Arya.” He nudged her. “You’ll make them cry.”

She grumbled, scowling. “But they made _me_ cry first.” She squinted her eyes at him. “I can even see how you wanna cry too.”

“Now you’re pushing it.” He shook his head, a smirk on his lips.

“No,” She sniffled, smiling up at him. “Am not.” Robb smiled back at her before his arms circled her and he shot to his feet. Arya squealed with delight as he twirled her around before putting her on her bed.

“Now,” He smirked down at her. “I think it’s beyond time someone gets some sleep!” And he tickled her. Arya squeaked and laughed, begging him to stop as his laughter joined hers.

“Stop, Robb!” She was breathless by the time he stopped, falling beside her on the bed with a huff. She turned towards him, tucking her hands under her chin. “Tell me a story.”

He grinned at her. “Visenya?” Arya crinkled her nose and shook her head.

“No Targaryens.” Robb looked at her with soft eyes, one hand tucking her hair behind her ear.

“She’s a nice girl, Arya,” Robb’s eyes glazed over. “Jon’s lucky to marry her.”

Arya looked away from him, feeling a pang of guilt that she was quick to swat away. “Still, no Targaryens. At least today?”

Her brother sighed but nodded. “Princess Nymeria then?”

Her grin was matched by her brother, and he tucked her close to his heart before starting his tale.

Arya slept with a smile on her lips and dreamed of being a wolf, running free through the summer fields of the North with her pack.

 

•••

 

Arms resting on the wood parapet of the walkway overlooking the courtyard, Arya watched with dull eyes as her brothers sparred against each other. The clash of their wood swords lulled her into a false sense of peace and security. That morning, the sky was greyish and the servants were bustling with activities.

Arya had heard that the multiple guests had each brought goods to the marriage. Both for House Stark and House Targaryen, as they would host their retinues for a long while. In between their rustle and bustle were Robb and Bran.

Their older brother was teaching him how to fight with sword an shield, and already, Arya could point out the wrong things in his stance. His feet were too far apart and his arms were weak and messy. His strikes were harmless and his hold on the sword far too awkward for proper balance. He threw the wooden sword around aimlessly, uncaring by the blade itself and its tip, only hoping for it to hit his adversary.

 _I could do much better,_ Arya thought while watching Robb slamming his sword against Bran’s shield multiple times before piercing low at the metal, making the smaller boy fall to the ground. Robb laughed and Theon barked out a jest. Ser Rodrik glared at them both, making Robb scramble to help Bran up. It made a small smile appear on her lips despite the detached way she felt that day.

Robb messed with Bran’s hair the same way he did with hers the previous day, adjusting his shield and stepping back, positioning himself to receive Bran’s oncoming attack when they were interrupted.

Jon rode fast into the courtyard, accompanied by his band of misfits and a few other Lords that had gone out early with him to ride. He made his horse circle his brother with impeccable control and grace, a huge smirk on his lips.

“Snow!” Robb shouted to him, following Jon’s path with a broad grin. “Stop showing off!”

“Jon!” Bran laughed, running to their bastard brother when he finally stopped with an effortless manoeuvre. Jon jumped from his horse and crouched low to hug Bran close.

“How is your training going, Bran?” She heard him ask, a breathless tone to his voice. Arya felt her numbness slowly fade away, the more she heard his voice. Wasn’t he sad? Wasn’t he affected by what she said and did the previous night? “Are you keeping your shield up?” The teasing question was one of his — and Father’s — most important lessons. _Otherwise, your head will ring like a bell._

She wanted to ring _his_ head until he couldn’t walk anymore or his face wasn’t as pretty as the princess undoubtedly preferred. That way, maybe, the idiot would stay home, where he belonged.

 _But would he even want it?_ She frowned at the back of his pretty head as he walked forward with Bran to meet up with Robb. Satin appeared from somewhere and took his black horse away along with Ramsay’s grey one. The older bastard went to Theon, who bailed considerably as the Snow swaggered towards him with a smirk.

“No, Bran still needs to understand the importance of his shield.” Robb drawled out, grasping at his brother’s forearm and hugging him with that manly weird handshake-hug-pat on the back Arya didn’t really get.

“I know it! It’s to stop the sword from hurting me, right Jon?”

The brothers laughed at the younger one and Arya felt all the angrier. Stupid Bran. A shield could do many things in battle! She would get down and get a shield herself and hurl it at him so they could properly see how _she_ could do so much better than Bran.

“Why so angry, my lady?”

She squeaked, jumping back and striking a fighting stance with her arms raised and her feet far apart. Her opponent ended up being the old man that always accompanied Lord Stannis Baratheon. She remembered sitting with him and his wife on the first feast. Ser Davos was his name, called the Onion Knight he had missing fingers and a funny bald head. He was fun to talk with too; his wife often mocked him and put him in his place. Arya liked Lady Maria a lot.

“What do you want?” She spat out, crossing her arms and turning back to face the courtyard. Robb and Jon were now showing Bran the right movements as Ramsay and Theon watch on. She saw Lord Renly beside a pretty young man in armour and other nameless lords that had accompanied Jon.

“To go back home, to have my children all remaining at the same age as you,” He pointed one finger ta her. She moved her eyes away from him, keeping them focused on Jon’s movements. “Peace, good food, to sail again.”

“You want many things.” She murmured to him.

“Yes, I do,” She heard his sigh, tired and worn. They stood together there, looking at the group of men and boys as they sparred together. Jon’s prodigious skills were evident, and Arya was proud to see her brother thrive and show those stuck-up assholes what a bastard lord like him could do.

Of course, as soon as she remembered that he was now a lord and would leave them seemingly willingly, she immediately scowled and looked away. She wanted to throw a rock at his stupid pretty hair.

“He seems like a fine lad,” Ser Davos, resting his arms on the half-wall and leaning on them.

“Who?”

“Your brother,” He was an alright brother until he betrayed her for a pretty and useless princess who travelled the world for pretty dresses. “The bastard one.”

She turned sharply toward him and punched his shoulder. “He is my oldest brother!” Arya wouldn’t let anyone belittle Jon because they didn’t share mothers. She lifted her chin and sneered at him like mother sneered at Ramsay. “He is the oldest, older than even Robb by months! You will not call him anything _but_ my brother.”

“Oh,” Ser Davos gasped, blinking surprised and tilting his head at her. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” Her lip quivered for a moment, but she punched her fist against the parapet, hoping the pain would chase away the sorrow and tears and silliness. “and he is leaving home because of _your princess_ ,” She narrowed her eyes at him and shoved one finger in his face. “So don’t you dare treat him as _just_ a fine lad.”

“Ah, I see,” He smiled at her, one hand slowly gripping her finger and lowering it. He then clasped his hands behind his back and nodded towards Jon. “You care about him a great deal, don’t you, Lady Arya?”

The title made her want to push him down the walkway, but his words brought a faint sting to her eyes. “Don’t call me that,” She whispered to him, sniffling and turning back so she could look down at Jon. He was laughing with Lord Renly and Robb as they watched Ramsay and Theon spar. She snorted, rolling her eyes and lifting one hand to sweep away the wetness in the corner of her eyes. “And I think that’s obvious.”

“You aren’t wrong,” They watched the boys fight, Ramsay quick with his sword always a finger away from Theon’s leather armour. Ramsay would win brutally, as he always did. “Was it him who taught you how to punch?” Arya blinked up at him. He shrugged his shoulder up. “It’s still hurting a bit, you did a good job.”

She pursed her lips and nodded at him in thanks. “Aye…” She gulped, sadness filling her as she liked down at him. He wouldn’t be with her for much more time so she could learn more and prove to him she could be as good as any boy. “Jon taught me how to fight,” She narrowed her eyes at him and silently dared him to defy her. His lips were drawn in a pensive pout as he stared down at Jon.

“Then he and Lady Daenerys will fit right in,” She started away from him, a confused frown on her face. “Well, they seemed cosy enough before…” She saw him shuddering but ignored it.

“What do you mean? Daenerys likes to watch fights?” He chuckled, shaking his head and straightening.

“Oh no, in no way. My lady is too enamoured with peace for that,” As she had thought; Daenerys was a wuss. Arya wondered how she could be related to someone like Visenya Targaryen. “But, a secret between us,” He leaned closer to her, eyes twinkling as he winked at her. “My lady does love to put her sword to use.” And he leaned away and bowed to her, walking down the walkway towards the armoury without looking back.

Arya stood there and blinked, and blinked a bit more. A sword? A sword that belonged to Daenerys?

She squinted her eyes towards the opposite direction from where Ser Davos had gone. Down the walkway was the closest path to the Main Keep. She looked down at Jon when she heard his voice. People were pushing him towards Ramsay, who stood as the winner of his fight. The called his name and his guard opened his arms to him, his training sword in hand. Theon passed by him and shoved his training sword in Jon’s direction.

Her eyes moved towards the way to the Main Keep. Scowling furiously and cursing her curiosity, Arya stomped her way down, knowing exactly who she wanted to speak with.

 

•••

 

 The red door seemed to mock her, and she wanted to set fire to it. She remembered Jon’s stupid attempt at painting it himself, to make the princess more comfortable. He had been paired red from head to toe, it was all very macabre and Sansa had screamed in fright. The end work was shit too, so Arya didn’t understand why he did even bother. A bunch of bullshit, of course, he just wanted to be silly.

Why would a red door ever maker her _happier_?

Shaking her head, she slapped her cheeks lightly before taking a deep breath. She put her hand on the door handle and pushed with all her strength.

Inside, she first saw the blond handmaiden sitting on the bed’s edge, closer to the door. Arya’s eyes immediately moved to the young girl sitting by her side. Daenerys was with a simple white dress with a square neckline and tight around her burst, flowing down like silk. The sleeves were long tight around her arms. She was also shoving an entire fruit down her throat and hollowing her cheeks around it.

The three of them froze in their places, and Daenerys looked at her with wide violet eyes the colour of lavender. She had both hands holding delicately at the base of the fruit — It was a banana, she had tasted the sweet fruit a few days prior. She had not eaten the way the princess seemed to prefer, though. Arya didn’t see anything practical about it. — and her full lips completely around it. She seemed like she was sucking on it.

Arya started to regret ever coming close to the weird girl.

The blond handmaiden stood up quickly with a “My lady!” while Daenerys let go of the fruit and spit it out. The fruit exited her mouth like an arrow as she shot to her feet and raised her hands like she was surrendering herself.

“Arya!” She squeaked out. Her face was redder than her door or the sigil of her house. She was breathing harshly out and kept moving her hands around. She decided to enter the room and closed the door behind her without taking her eyes away from the suspicious duo. “What-What are you doing here?” Her eyes quickly looked at the door and then moved to the handmaiden with clear desperation. So, they forgot to lock the door and were caught doing… _something_ with a fruit. Arya pitied Jon. His wife had, clearly, the Targaryen madness.

She decided to cut the crap and get what she came to get. “I heard you know how to use a sword.”

That brought the princess to a stop. She frowned, tilted her head and fell back on the bed, unusually gracelessly. Arya crossed her arms and cocked her head to the left, narrowing her eyes on her and waiting for a response that wasn’t fumblingly embarrassment.

“Sword?” She asked, squinting at her for a moment before moving her eyes to her handmaiden. The older woman shrugged, a helpless look that Arya recognized from Robb and Father’ own faces when dealing with her and Sansa. Daenerys straightened before meeting Arya’s grey orbs again, clasping her hands dotingly on her lap. Arya started to doubt Ser Davos’ words. “You have heard right, I’d guess. But…” She stopped, her mouth hanging open for a few moment, brows creased and lips quivering before she spoke once more. “Last night…”

“There’s nothing about last night.” Arya hissed, hackles raised. “Imma not gonna answer to anything from _you_.”

Daenerys’ face softened, her brows turned down, expressively and bold in showing her apparent emotions. She nodded, disheartened in such a way it made Arya uncomfortable. The same way Sansa did when she genuinely started to cry about something Arya did to her, instead of fighting with her.

“I…” She faltered, questioning herself for a single moment. Daenerys did not look like a villainous princess stealing her brother away. Her face last night…She seemed devastated, Arya remembered. She seemed then, she seemed tiny now. Arya had heard the awed stories about this girl, about how she had defied convention the night of her marriage by welcoming and freeing three slaves. The hushed whispers of reverence between the servants and the hopeful talks about the visiting merchants and small folk from Winter Town and beyond. Daenerys did not look like the figure beyond real life, strong and cunning and undaunted, that her guests seemed to admire after a brief discussion with her and Jon. “I came here to offer a deal.” It was time for Arya judge her the only way she could.

“A deal?” She answered back in a whisper, curiosity shining in her ethereal eyes. She truly was pretty, prettier than anyone Arya had ever seen. It was kinda disgusting.

“Yes,” She nodded. Taking a deep breath, Arya closed her eyes and remembered her mother’s lessons. Straighten your posture, lift your chin, clasp your hands in front of you and stare down anyone you deem your enemy. _You are a Stark, and Winter is Coming._ “I want to fight with you.” The sentence brought a blank look from Daenerys that irritated her and only made her stare harder at her. “For Jon’s honour, if I win, Jon stays.” A very simple deal.

Daenerys’ mouth hung open again. She moved her eyes to her handmaiden, but Arya persevered and kept her eyes glued to the princess.

“I cannot fight you, Arya,” The princess rejected her and her shoulders fell in disappointment. _What?!_ Daenerys stood up from her bed, a fire in her eyes as she looked down at the she-wolf. “I will not dare to raise my sword against my husband’s sister!”

Arya Stark stood speechless. The meek empty-headed princess was standing before her with her shoulders set and a face she had only seen her father wear. Daenerys, in her simple white dress — so different from the beautiful flowing blue velvet dress she had used as of late, or her other elaborated pieces — looked more regal and powerful than she ever did. As the Targaryen Lady stared down at her, furious and outraged and unwavering in her decision, Arya thought back to the legend of dragon lords and Valyrian people. Of blood that was red and made of pure fire and uncontrollable rage that was nothing to the Fury of House Baratheon. In that moment, Arya caught a glimpse of the Great House of the Three-Headed Dragon. In that moment, Arya thought that maybe she could understand how Aegon conquered the Seven Kingdoms.

In that moment, Arya knew exactly what to do.

If she won’t fight _her…_ “Then fight Jon.” She stood her ground and crossed her arms. Daenerys blinked, taken aback. Arya smirked. “I want to see you _fight_.” She set her jaw, forcing the words out. “Show me that you are…” Daenerys took a step closer to her, eyes so earnest Arya felt breathless. “That you are more.” She felt those fucking tears that’d been building inside her since the previous night come back again, but she refused to let them fall again. “Show me that I’m wrong.”  _Show me you can be good. Show me that Jon isn’t just… isn’t just leaving for an empty castle and a hollow life._

 _Please, be worthy of my brother._ She thought, feeling light and weightless and just… _He deserves it. Jon deserves to be happy._

Daenerys and Arya remained there for what felt like years. She never turned away from those piercing violet orbs that dissected every aspect of what made Arya, _Arya._ She felt judged and studied and appreciated. She felt like she was being _heard_. She felt like she was being _seen._

“Very well,” She finally nodded, slowly but surely. Daenerys turned to her handmaiden. “Doreah, fetch me my boots and some breeches to go under this dress.” She turned around, suddenly full of movement as the blonde woman, Doreah, was quick to conclude her orders.

“What…what are you doing?” Arya shook her head, following her as she approached the hearth.

“I am preparing myself to fight with my husband…” Doreah held out a white bundle of clothing to Daenerys, and she gripped it and crouched down to put on the breeches. “For my good sister’s approval, and, apparently, his honour.” Doreah gathered the flowy white skirts — so different from her usual heavy dresses — and held them close to her lady’s waist as she laced her tight pants. “A most interesting situation, but…” The handmaiden let the skirt fall around her legs once more as Daenerys looked at Arya with a small smile. “If it is the price to make your mind at ease, I shall comply with your request.”

She sat in an armchair and begun to put on her high boots while Arya stared at her in faint shock.

“You mean—You’ll do it now?!”

“Yes!” Her boots were quickly laced and then she jumped from her armchair, somehow completely energized. “Jon must have returned from his riding trip, am I right?” She turned around, pointing at a red chest. “Doreah, fetch me my training sword.”

“Y-Yes…” Arya was completely shocked by her easy compliance and eagerness to proceed in a duel. Ser Davos hadn’t said she enjoyed peace?

“Then he must be in the courtyard, sparring.” She nodded to Arya, gathering two parts of her hair on both sides of her head and pulling them back. Doreah came back with a simple sword in a black leather scabbard in her hands, putting it on the armchair so she could secure the Lady’s pale hair with little pins and leather cords. When ready, Daenerys clapped her hands and took her sword. “Let’s meet the boys.”

“Wait…” But Daenerys ignored her and just went to the door, stopping for a moment to stare at it with reverence — honestly, it looked crappy. Arya was confused by the Targaryen in a way she had never been before. — before she opened and it and exiting her rooms.

Doreah and Arya stood there in silence, staring at the door the Lady had just disappeared into. Arya turned around to look at the blank-faced woman, who just lifted an eyebrow at her before nodding towards the door.

“Hey! Daenerys! Wait, Daenerys! _Dany, wait for me!_ ”

 

•••

 

Daenerys walked like a woman on a _mission._ Her strides were wide and her dress billowed behind her dramatically. Her hair was full of movement and everything about her was very vibrant despite her washed out physical colours. She was completely in white, but as they walked by guests and guards and servants, Arya felt as if she was a rainbow bringing colour and life everywhere she passed. Anyone could see the energy boiling just beneath her moonlit skin.

People stopped to look at her, to _really_ look at her. They admired her in a way that was otherworldly, and through it all Daenerys remained unbothered. It was just like when she had first lowered her hood, the first day when she had just arrived and they were introducing themselves. The whole castle had held its breath at the vision of her, so obviously different from everything and anything they had ever had contact with. Her appearance opened old wounds and enchanted them all over again.

And now, so intense and brilliant and _bold_ as she marched through the castle towards the courtyard, with no hesitance and no fear, Arya could once again understand why the name _Targaryen_ held so much weight in their world.

The single-minded resolution Daenerys displayed was the kind that made entire civilizations bend their knees and fall prettily behind her lines. It was the kind of thing that inspired and brought changes. In that moment, Arya felt like Daenerys could change _the world_.

Despite herself, Arya was already kind of rooting for her brother’s wife. She was just too confident to ever think otherwise.

Which was absolutely silly, she had just made a bet that if Jon won, he’d stay.

“Why are you so intent on doing this?” She gasped out, doing her best to keep her pace matching the older girl’s. “What’s in it for you? It’s an _arranged_ marriage.”

She could see the courtyard already. Jon’s quick movements as he parried his sword against Theon’s were completely calculated and deadly. Daenerys still did not answer her, heading out of the shade provided by the castle and out in the early morning light. Mud quickly stained the hem of her dress as she stopped just shy out of the loose circle the man had made around the fighters.

Arya slammed into her side, her head barely going beyond the girl’s waist as she held tightly to her. She looked up at Daenerys, expecting her to be looking at her, but the princess’ eyes were directed solely to one person.

Daenerys took a deep breath, and then, “JON!”

Arya gaped at her as Jon stopped his continuous attacks on Theon, his sword sliding against Theon’s until the hilt. As his the dull blade hit the guard, he twisted his wrists just a little bit, putting enough force behind his move to make Theon’s sword fly from his grip. Jon tossed his hair back, straightening and turning to face them. One of his hands rose to push his hair away from his face as he tilted his head.

“My lady?”

“Fuck!” Theon banged his shield on the ground, other hand reaching for his fallen blade.

Jon sneered at him. “Watch your language. Arya’s here.” Now it was time for her to look at Jon with raised eyebrows. _Really, brother?_

“Oh please, spare us from that. Arya knows more profanities than all of us combined.” The crowd around them laughed nervously. Arya only felt bothered because she knew it wasn’t actually the truth. _Yet._ “Now, what does your little lady wants now?” He chuckled, lucking her up and down. His eyes widened when he finally noticed the sword in her hands. “Well, it seems it’s not your sword she came for, Snow.”

Arya did not understand, but there were plenty of shocked gasps around them and Jon looked ready to murder the Greyjoy. Ramsay was already looming a few paces behind Theon, no doubt ready to slice the hostage’s throat and damn the consequences. If it was so insulting, and Jon’s name was involved, Arya decided to take it as a slight. She glared at Theon and took a step forward, mouth opening and ready to fire as many of his dirty little secrets — Theon did a lot of things in Winter Town, and people liked to talk — and as many insults as she could muster. Daenerys stopped her, putting a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment before she started walking towards Theon.

“Forgive me, I don’t recall your name.” Arya suspected it was a lie. Daenerys hadn’t forgotten even the _servants_ ’ names. She always greeted everyone by their name or title. The people gathered around them thought the same too, because they all chuckled. Theon narrowed his eyes at her, shifting uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to answer when she stopped close to him. She did not let him speak. “But I didn’t come here to speak with _you_.” And she twisted sharply to face Jon, turning her back on Theon. Robb barked out a laugh that made Theon blush from the tip of his hair to his very toes. Arya grinned at him and crossed her arms, nodding in approval. “At the request of my good-sister and the apparent protector of your virtue, husband,” Before she even finished, Jon was already turning his head to look at Arya, deadpan fully pointed at her.

She felt fully offended by his deduction. Not everything that happened in their family was _her_ fault.

“I am here to fight with you, for the honour of being your wife.” His gaze snapped back to his wife, wide-eyed and incredulous. Arya could see the smile Daenerys was giving her most to contain. “In the name of Lady Arya of House Stark,” She wished the ground would swallow her whole. Arya could just feel the judging stares upon her back. She contained herself from baring her teeth and telling them to look away. She had asked for this, she would see it through. “I am here to prove my worth to you as a wife, winning your favour through battle.”

The couple exchanged long looks, uncaring for the whispering crowd and doubtful eyes around them. Jon had a deep crease between his brows, his lips pressed into a thin line. Daenerys kept her confident poise, arms relaxed and hair moving lazily in the gentle breeze. He moved his eyes down to her sword.

“Is that…?” He asked, pointing at the sword.

Daenerys looked at it and back him, chuckling and shaking her head as she took the bade from its scabbard. “Of course not, Jon!” She bit her lip, showing the blade to him and giving the scabbard to Ramsay. It was thinner than a usual sword, doubled edged with a simple cross guard. “That’d be hardly fair.” She chuckled, looking back towards Arya and winking at her. “Do you accept my challenge?”

“Oh,” He finally smiled at her, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Is it a challenge, then?”

Daenerys nodded, stepping back and putting arm crossed on her lower back. She dragged her feet apart and twirled her sword, pointing it at him. “Of course.” Her movements were smooth, and the blade almost seemed to glide through the air. “Then, what does my lord say?”

Though it was she who asked for Daenerys to fight, Arya was wonderstruck. To her grip on the sword’s handle to the way she had moved into her fighting stance screamed competence and skill. Even in a dress, she moved with complete awareness of her body, no doubt or question about what to do or how to move.

Daenerys _knew_ what she was doing.

So distracted by the Lady’s movement, Arya only noticed Theon’s form looming over the older girl’s after he spoke.

“You think a little sword like this will be effective?” He drawled out. Daenerys moved away from, pivoting and facing him as she took a step back closer to Jon. “And what kind of fighting stance was that?” He mimicked her, putting his arm strapped with a circular shield over his stomach and slashing his sword upwards, pointing it at her. An idiot, Theon has always been an idiot and it seemed that part of him knew worse manners than even Arya. “Women have no place in battle,” He cooed at her, letting his sword arm fall and smirking. “So stop your pretty dancing and let us spar for real,” some of the men around them raised their voice accordance, making Theon’s eyes shone as he turned to the crowd, arms open high. “Let’s show the lady a real fight, boys!” The stupid lords cheered louder and Arya glared at all of them, she saw Robb with his arms crossed and a smirk on his lips as he shook his head.

Arya ran across and stomped on his foot. Robb yelped and moved away from her. “Arya, gods, why did you do that?”

She sneered at him and pointed at Theon, who was glowing by the attention he received. “Stop him!”

Robb opened his mouth but was interrupted by Theon again. “So,” He smiled arrogantly at the pair. Jon was glaring daggers at the Greyjoy. Daenerys looked down at him with a regal and detached expression, chin lifted and eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you let me show you some real _sword work.”_ He grinned wolfishly, and Robb face palmed beside her. His heavy sigh was telling of what he thought of his best friend. _Theon should just die already!_ Arya thought, growling in frustration. She didn’t understand the insult, but she was sure it was an insult.

Jon took a step forward, face dark and dangerous as he vibrated with a murderous rage Arya had only seen once. For a moment, her eyes strayed to Ramsay, make her shudder before she turned her eyes back to the Targaryens. Daenerys hadn’t let Jon do whatever he wanted, beating him to it by stepping forward towards Theon. Jon watched her like a falcon while Theon bit his lip, smirking like crazy.

The dragon girl smiled serenely at the Greyjoy, leaving her sword arm low and strident towards him slowly, moving her lips and tilting her head. “You are making mistakes, my lord.” Theon grinned wider.

“Mistakes?” He asked, eyes wide and dark. The light hit against Daenerys’ sword, different from the dark and old blades they had for training. It reflected on her dress and the ground, her light skirt flowed around her, loose from the underside of her breasts till her booted toes. Her hair moved hypnotically, gold and silver and made of stars and moon and the sun itself. Theon watched her with hunger.

“Yes,” She smiled, still walking slow, but her arms tensed just so. Her shoulders setting firmly and Arya could see the sword in her hand arching up inch by inch. “First,” And then she _moved_.

On her next step, Daenerys bent her knee, leaning forward and bending her sword arm back, pointing the sword at Theon. In a blink of an eye, she had thrust herself forward, running at him so fast Theon barely had time to raise his shield. The tip of her sword hit the metal piece with a bang and Theon cried in alarm as the force of her blow pushed him back. But the girl didn’t stop there.

She corrected her grip on the handle and sliced the sword up, stepping further close to the older boy. Daenerys brought the sword down with the pommel hitting him square on the jaw. As he was tilted sideways to the ground, she still was quick enough to kick him back, sending him to the ground.

“You were not paying attention.” She spoke slowly, voice sweet and lofty as she looked down at him. Theon was breathing hard, wide-eyed and spitting blood as he looked up at her. He had been thrown on his back and seemed to be too shocked to properly react. She smiled. “Two,” And she stepped towards him again, slicing her sword in front of her as if to rid it from blood. Theon crawled back, panting loudly with his eyes never straying from her form.

Theon scrambled back to his feet and barely managed to lift his sword to block her attack. They parried and he tried to use his force and shield to push her away. And then Daenerys _danced_ around him. She pivoted, delicate and quick as she moved around his body until she was at his back. She sliced him, the dull blade moving heavily against his leather armour and making him stumble forward.

Theon was angry now, heaving and getting his teeth as he turned to face her again. “What was that? You’re using some kind of dance?” He pointed his sword at her, blood spilling from his mouth. “Don’t know how real fighting works, girly?” He spat at her. But on the next moment, he was screaming as she brought her sword down on him. He tried blocking with his shield, clumsily. She kicked him again, making him stable back.

“Two,” She repeated, short of breath but in a different way from Theon. She seemed exhilarated. “You seem to think I take it as an insult when you call me by what I am,” Her serene facet finally fell and she sneered at him, snarling back and snapping her teeth at him. “I do not.” And marched towards him with long strides, lifting her swords and striking at him.  Theon met her strike for strike now, moving more skillfully now.

Theon was too slow, yes, but he had more physical strength.

Their swords met, fighting for dominance. They remained like that, forcing the dulled blades against together. Finally, Theon was gaining ground on her. He kept pushing her back more and more, her grip faltering when met with his superior strength. Daenerys started to lean back. Theon grinned at her, maniac and bloodthirsty.

Arya looked at them with wide eyes and her breath stuck to the back of her throat. She felt as if she would explode at any given moment.

At last, Theon managed to make her fall to one knee. Daenerys held her ground even when facing her apparent defeat, crying out loud with the effort to stop him.

“He has her on her knees!” Arya grabbed Robb’s clothes. “He’ll kick her! Just like she did!” She shook his arm, not taking her eyes away from the stagnant fight.

“No…”

“What?” She stared up at him. Robb was staring at them — no, at _Daenerys —_ with awed blue eyes as bright as the cloudless summer sky.

“Theon wants her on her knees, Arya. And that will be his defeat,” He smirked. “Look who really has the high ground.  _Look._ ”

And she did. She turned her eyes to them, forcing herself to find the same source of hope that made her own brother so sure the other girl would win. She now held her sword with two hands,  holding Theon’s blade from striking her shoulder as she positioned her feet slightly turned.  Theon practically loomed over her form. And then, Arya saw it.

Theon brought his sword closer and was already cackling with victorious glee. “Who’s laughing now?!” Daenerys glared up at him and bared her teeth in a hellish smile.

“Three,” She grunted, almost shouted, and shoved her sword sideways. The blades created sparks as the metals glided against each other. The guard hit the other’s blade and pushed it away from her flesh. Theon fell forward, sword stabbing into the mud as Daenerys pivoted on one knee. As the boy put a leg forward to try stopping his fall, Daenerys shoved her own knee in his gut. Theon made a strangled sound. “I am Daenerys Stormborn.” She kneed him again and shoved him away. He fell sideways to the ground.

She threw her hair back, her white dress glued to her form because of her sweat. Her skirts and hem were ruined by mud and even a bit of blood. Strands of silver-gold hair were sticking to her face and neck and chest. Her panting made her breasts push against her neckline, straining upwards. Daenerys stared down at Theon Greyjoy with utter disgust as he stumbled back to his feet.

Her free hand rose to push back the strands of hair glued to her face. “I am Lady of House Targaryen, Lady of the Gift and Lady of Queenscrown.” She let the hand fall limply beside her. She then started walking towards the hyperventilating Iron Born. “And _you_ underestimated _me_.” She brought her arm back and punched him squarely on his jaw.

All was silent as Theon fell to his back on the mud, wheezing and spitting blood and drool. Utterly spent with various odd dents in his leather armour. Daenerys stood over him, holding her head high as she turned her head back to her husband. Her hair was a sweaty mess and her full lips were hanging open with a lazy smirk as she stared at him with hooded eyes. Her small stature did nothing to mask how utterly _wrong_ Arya had been all this time.

Daenerys of House Targaryen, wife to Jon Snow of House Targaryen, was no mere princess.

_She was queen._

Arya broke the dead silence with whoops and claps. “YOU GO DANY!” She punched the air in front of her. “Take that, Theon! YEAH!” A few of the men amongst the crowd started to scream in joy, whooping and clapping with her. Robb laughed and clapped loudly as Jon ran to his wife, hugging her close and twirling her around. Theon punched the ground and rolled away in the mud when Ramsay crouched next to him, a big and perturbing grin on his lips.

Jon put Dany on the ground and stepped away from her. He had no smile on his face, only a really weird and dark look that Arya found weird. She just shoved the thought away and put in the little new corner in her mind that she would leave reserved as ‘House Targaryen’s eccentricities’.

Daenerys bit her lip and stepped away from her husband, one arm crossing behind her as she brought her sword up. She then spoke loudly enough to make the crowd pay attention once more. “I guess we may proceed with my request, then?” She lifted one eyebrow, nodding towards Arya and waking at her briefly before meeting Jon’s gaze again. “I wish to gain your favour, my lord.”

Jon’s lips twitched before he nodded towards Ramsay, who went to fetch him a dulled training sword. “I’m almost certain that this is not the conventional way to gain a lord’s favour.” Ramsay went back with the sword and throwing to Jon. Her brother caught it with nought a look and it made her proud. _Seven hells_ , her brother was cool.

“I am not a conventional lady,” Daenerys rebuffed, cool mask back in place as she crouched slightly. She manoeuvred her sword gracefully, slicing the air and extending her sword arm in front of her, low with the tip at the same height as her breasts.

“Thank the gods for that, my lady,” Jon threw his scabbard on the ground, two hands holding tightly the sword handle as he entered his fighting stance. Sword low and held in front of him, tip high and feet far apart.

Daenerys tilted her head and smirked. “I believe in no gods, my lord,” Arya could just _feel_ the choked gasps around them. She wanted to cackle and applaud. “I am what I am by my own merit.” And then, they ran towards the other, swords clashing with sparks flying.

Arya Stark decided that Daenerys Targaryen was _everything_ she ever wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. So. That happened. Is that a cliffhanger? Dunno really. Do we see that fight's consequence reverberating throughout the entire story? Maybe so. Is the cuteness and family drama and love vibes too overload? Hell yeah. Is this chapter a lot to take in? lol, you tell me.
> 
> Before addressing anything related to the chapter, I want to ask if you guys are bothered by the length of the chapters? If you are, I'm truly sorry but I can't promise to make them shorter. I have this chapters planned out by plot points, and I need to put the scenes according to what the plot demands and the length of the scenes are the only things I can't predict. This is gonna be a huge AU with many long chapters, and if Slow Built is not for you, then maybe wait until more chapters are uploaded? Or just jump to something else. There are many amazing fast-paced stories out there. I am sorry if this note annoys you, but someone pointed out to me that the chapters were too long? But I enjoy writing this format and I'll keep doing it, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Just to know that I DO KNOW where I'm going with this. It's planned out. So even if it's slow paced as hell, we'll get there eventually. I just need to build up the plot.
> 
> First, should I be saying sorry for that fighting scene? The duel thingy is something I am REALLY nervous about. Like you have no idea. This is my second fighting scene and the only real one without something magical involved. Please tell me your thoughts about it! As it's a duel, I could really focus on the details, but I dunno if it made for a boring and tiring scene. The dialogue of it made me need to put some heavy detail to what was happening but I don't if it ended up too bad? I'm really nervous you guys.
> 
> Now, onto Ned's words. That's something that hurt me to write and I hate to do it, but Ned's a conservative dude from a medieval era world. He was warning his kids about the only thing that was accepted by the society, and Arya, as always, didn't really agree.
> 
> Arya is SO young. She's just a little kid and everything is just going so fast and her big bro is leaving and there's this girl who's stealing him from her -- in sum, she bottled it all up and it exploded horribly. We'll see Jon's side of this fallout.
> 
> One thing that amuses me about her character is her repetitive use of certain words. 'Pretty' and 'stupid' are the main examples. So yeah, that was deliberate. I had to always catch myself and remember to use more simpler words for her, while also putting more profanity because Arya would know that, even if she did not know what it meant. I really liked that contrast. 
> 
> Also, I love writing oblivious Arya. She's just a lost and angry little ball of prepubescent violence that we all love. This was pretty much a character focused chapter, with a few things about Plot Things thrown at it so it can all tie up nicely in the future.
> 
> We introduced Satin. As I said before, I'm trying my best to not use OC characters, and I need long and dark-haired boys. At least one that I could name. Thank god, we have Satin. He's cute, he's smart, he'll fit right in.
> 
> To be honest, I don't have much to say about the chapter. I'm just tired maybe. I'll wait for your reviews and I'll answer your questions and doubts!
> 
> Love you all :3
> 
> ~Mari
> 
> Ps: please review and give me your thoughts. They're like gold for me T_T
> 
> Pss: I AM SO SORRY ABOUT TYPOS. I'M SO TIRED LIKE WHY DO I ALWAYS EDIT AT UNHOLY HOURS?


	8. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saying goodbye is hard, but Jon has good motivation to keep going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very angry at myself now. Very, very angry. You see, someway, somehow, one entire scene of this chapter was completely cut. Like, completely. I...I don't even know how it happened, how I did not fucking notice. It's the 3rd of August and suddenly I notice I have one entire scene missing from this chapter. I don't even know what happened. Was it me? Was it ao3? Who knows, I didn't notice, which is great, right? (Notice the sarcasm.)
> 
> I'm back with a monster, as usual. This one is record-breaking though, ladies and gentlemen and non-genders.
> 
> 28k chapter to please my folks. We finally get political, Jon commits various acts of violence and Ramsay kills people.
> 
> I was long gone because I was actually accepted into that university I wanted the following week from me getting sick so yay! I had lots to do and a bunch to catch up. Also, sorry for not answering you guys' reviews from the last chapter. I will answer them before the next update (which is gonna be lit af).
> 
> Have a nice reading, and also, I'm sorry if you were not notified by ao3 of this update. Since my Catelyn chapter, I've been having this problem and I honestly don't know what to do.
> 
> Also, magicmoon111, author of Her Life and Her Death, won't be updating for a while because of her exams and personal reasons.
> 
> Enjoy this monster of a chapter AND PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS UNHOLY AND HOLY: REVIEW!!!!!! (this chapter begins right after Arya demanding Jon to stay in Winterfell.)

He had never stopped to think about how he would leave his family for good.

Since his tenth nameday, all Jon knew was Queenscrown, Winterfell and the North. He had spent days, weeks and even months travelling through both his and his father’s lands. With guidance or on his own, young Jon had made sure to know every little space in his city, had fallen asleep in the fields, explored the underground tunnels and ventured through the snowfields near the Wall. He and his friends had explored all of the abandoned castles across the wall, all of the abandoned towns in the Gift, as much as the mountain as he could.

It had been a surprise when he had first stepped out of Winterfell without his father.

Jon knew every nook and crook of the North; from the very swampy limits of the Neck until the Wall, staring down at the end of the world, he had seen it all. But at the end of the day, after concluding adventures, finding new treasures and communing with the Northern lords of the Realm, Jon had always returned to Winterfell.

Arya’s wild smiles and Robb’s laugh, the warmth of his father’s embrace and the relief of being home and safe, of knowing he hadn’t to worry about ruling it; that was Winterfell. Queenscrown was home too, but Winterfell was…it was his _home._ It was where the only family he had ever known lived, where _he_ had lived.

Now though…Now, he was leaving for _good_.

Arya turned her back on him and ran, as nimble as always, leaving him breathless. Barely, he noticed Dany standing beside him, shoulders sagged and eyes shiny as she looked at him.

“Jon…” Her sweet voice called for him, one small hand gripping tightly to his arm as he turned to face her.

His breathing turned erratic, his lower lip trembled and he could feel the cold sweat running down his back.

“Jon…” He blinked and frowned down at her, his mouth opened and he felt the need to say something, anything. He turned his face back towards where Arya had run towards. His wife’s other hand cupped his cheek and turned him back to her. “Let’s head to my chambers.” Jon shook his head, closing his eyes and untangling himself from her touch, stepping towards Arya.

But what could he do? He was leaving, he knew he was.

With daunting realization, Jon finally admitted to himself that, maybe, _he did not want to leave._

The gap barring him from Arya — his little sister and his dearest sibling — was an empty void that screamed at him to choose. Behind him stood Daenerys, beautiful and willful and gentle Daenerys, who was a new addition to his life even though she was the whole reason for him to leave. And even though his people were in the path that his wife opened, Jon still gazed longingly to where his young sister and his past remained.

There shouldn’t have space in his mind for confusion. He had chosen Queenscrown a long time ago, he shouldn’t be hesitating to _finally_ leave Winterfell and go to the place where he mattered.

“No, Dany, I need to…” He stood in the middle of that dark corridor, feeling unsure and young and everything he hated. He was a lord, he had no time to be so insecure and foolish. _Grow up, Snow._

“You must rest.” Dany’s hands returned to his arm again, stronger and surer than he felt. Again, his wife showed just how extraordinary she could be. She tugged on his arm, making him stumble close to her. “Let’s go through here.” And she directed him to the opposite direction from Arya. He let her guide him through the dark corridors of his own home, dazed and relying on her in a way he…he hadn’t ever. There had never been someone for him lean on.

He looked down at her with a cool face, locking himself up as securely as he could. “This is the longer way.”

Violet eyes rose up to meet his own grey ones, solemn and watchful as studied him closely. Her words were soft. “I know.”

Jon wanted to curl up and cry. He wanted to throw something at her head and scream how unfair it was that he had to leave everything he knew behind because of her. He wanted to throw himself at her feet and thank her for everything she had given to him.

A distant remembrance of his younger years came to mind, misted over and vague.Cold hands of a stranger giving the bare minimum a baby needed to ensure its survival, echoes of cries and cold sheets and thin beds in a dark corner of the castle, away from the warm chambers of the Main Keep. Father’s voice and rare presence was the only thing to hold on to, and Robb’s company was denied to him for so long, it had been as if they never lived in Winterfell.

How many a night had he spent alone in his room? Confused and small, young and away from his family. Jon could not have been relaxed like Robb, or defiant like Arya. It did not matter that he was as diligent as Sansa. He could have never been as curious as Bran or as wild and loving as Rickon. Jon was bastard, no true born and no true heir to the North. _He had no place here._

Robb could freely ask for comfort, Jon could not. Sansa could easily ask for guidance, Jon could not. Arya’s rebellions could be tolerated, Jon’s could not. Bran could be indulged, Jon could not. Rickon could be affectionate with his family, Jon could not. His siblings had the freedom he had never dared thinking of achieving, and if it weren’t Daenerys, who had chained him to her at the same time that she opened up a world of goals and dreams that were near unreachable to every other bastard in the Realm.

Standing in the middle of a dimly-lighted corridor, his wife’s hands holding tightly to his own while she stared at him with scared jewel-like orbs, with his back to where his dear sister had run to, felt like a betrayal.

“Jon?” A voice came from behind them, not Arya’s, but as familiar as hers. Daenerys bit her lower lip, worry clear in her eyes as she hesitated for only a second before turning her eyes to where Arya had run to.

“Robb!” Relief was clear in the way her shoulders relaxed and her mouth slacked open just a smidge, the corners of her full lips twitching up just slightly. Even in his state, Jon still admired her beauty. She let go of his hand so she was standing beside him, facing his brother. Frowning slightly, Jon turned around to see Robb standing with Ramsay behind him. Ramsay met his gaze with a smirk, nodding as if he was saying ‘I told you so’. His hands fisted by his side, making his nails dig into his skin. The Bastards’ Boys were standing behind Ramsay, hoods over their faces only allowing their mouths to be seen.

“Dany, Jon,” Robb frowned at them, glancing behind for a moment before continuing. “Was that Arya?” His brother’s expressive blue eyes were slightly accusing as they met his and Jon looked down at the ground, guilt making his throat tighten painfully.

“Aye…” He murmured in response, not sure if Robb could hear him but unwilling to speak loudly. An awkward silence loomed over them. Daenerys elbowed him and Jon tightened his muscles and clenched his jaw, intent on not giving away his thoughts. His wife sighed in a way that almost made him give up and act like the lord he was supposed to be, but he bit his tongue and glared at the ground.

“Yes…Robb, I…” Dany sighed. He saw by the corner of his eyes as she hung her head down, shaking her head softly. Robb’s steps echoed in his ears as his brother approached them. “It’s because of me. Jon is going away because of me and she…” She sighed, looking up at Robb. “Arya is right. I am meddling into your family and it’s only tearing you apart.”

Jon snorted.

They turned to him and Robb’s amused smirk was clear in his mind. What surprised Jon was that Dany’s reaction — a strong furrow between her brows, raised chin in defiance and slightly tilted head — was exactly as he expected when he turned slowly to face them.

“How is that, Jon?” She lifted one challengingly eyebrow that made both him and Robb exchange slight smirks.

It was Robb who answered her. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Dany.” He smiled, dashing and charming as he had always been. “It’s just…” He sighed then, shaking his head and moving his bright blue eyes to Jon. “It’s just Arya.” He whispered, tired and looking as small as his three and ten namedays. Grinding his jaw, Jon locked eyes with his brother. He could feel his whole body stiffening as Robb looked at him in that way he did, as if he was the older, as the heir to the North. “What did she do?”

Without him knowing, Jon’s eyes moved to Ramsay, standing all the way back at the corner of the corridor, observing them all with clever eyes that saw more than people thought him capable. His frightening clear eyes met his and the older boy smiled softly, mockingly. Jon scowled and looked down, his arms rising to cross in front of his chest.

He took a deep breath, looking up sharply as his eyes stung and a gasp — _sob_ _—_ rose up in his throat. He sighed, again, his eyes watering up as his lips trembled. He lifted one arm, one hand hastily dragging his fucking tears away as he met his brother’s eyes. Jon lifted his chin and bit the inside of his cheek.

“She told me to stay.”

“Ah,” Robb answered softly. The sound came out of his mouth almost falsely, but the way he moved on his feet and his mouth clipped shut soon after told Jon that Arya’s actions reached him the same way it had Jon — like falling from their horses or being taken by a painful illness, or their father’s raised voice in anger and disappointment or Lady Catelyn’s sharp words and even sharper fingernails. Robb took half a step towards him before his gaze slid towards Dany, who was looking away from them. “Well,” He gasped out, a trembling smile on his lips as he blinked his tears away, sniffing slightly as he chuckled softly. “She only did what I wasn’t brave enough to do.”

Closing his eyes was the only way to make it possible for his tears not to fall. It would be unsightly for him to cry. He was almost a man grown despite his age. Men did not cry, that was something that should be left to women.

Yet, Jon could not look away from his brother as his tears finally fell. He gritted his teeth harder, scowling furiously for a moment before he stepped forward and met his brother’s open arms with a fierce embrace.

Jon did not know what his new wife would think of him, seeing him so vulnerable and messy and behaving like a child, but at moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I’m scared, Stark.” He whispered quietly, only for his brother’s ears. Robb moved away, just enough that he was holding the back of Jon’s head while Jon held his shoulder. “Does that make me less of a man?”

Robb chuckled, closing his eyes and shaking his head before meeting his gaze again. He smirked, blue Tully eyes twinkling playfully as he messed with his hair. “Good thing we’re still boys, aye?”

Jon’s lips twitched as he held back a laugh, shoving his brother away and pretending that his heart hadn’t just almost jumped out of his chest and that he hadn’t almost fallen to his knees while bawling over like a baby. They laughed and then clasped hands, holding tight for a long moment as they exchanged long looks that spoke much more than their words ever could.

“I’ll take care of Arya. Go sleep, Snow.” Robb nodded to Dany, without taking his eyes out of Jon. “I heard you were leaving early with a bunch of Southerners.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Jon replied, moving his eyes to his wife. Dany had moved forward so she was standing closer to Ramsay, looking at them worryingly. He could feel the way he softened slightly, his face and body relaxing as he met her eyes. Without moving his eyes away from her, he lifted his chin and smirked. “And it’s Targaryen now, Stark.”

Robb doubled over laughing. Jon felt lighter as Dany finally smiled and took him to their chambers.

 

•••

 

Waking up at dawn was something Jon was used to for most of his life, but waking up with someone by his side certainly was something new. In the past days, Jon could barely believe he had someone beside him, every day and every night, holding him as tightly as he held her.

Sometimes, he would sleep in. Those times were the mornings where they had been more adventurous in the previous night, more curious about each other. Sometimes they would stay awake exploring each others’ bodies, other times they would sit by the fire and talk about anything; to the way she enjoyed learning and reading to the way he enjoyed planning and training. There were nights where he would roll out his maps and documents and they would discuss Queenscrown. They planned for the future and exchanged stories of their past, always listening to what the other had to say.

There were nights where they would simply lay on their bed and _look_ at each other.

Every time he woke up next to her, be it when she was already awake and looming over him, thin fingers caressing his face — she had a fascination with his facial hair — while her other hand was tangled in his locks, or when he woke up first to feel her cuddled close to him, under the same cover as him while her breath fawned over his skin, Jon felt something inside himself shift. The sheer magnitude of having someone by his side, someone so close, someone that he could be closer to without fear, changed and made him…softer.

In his heart, he knew he wasn’t as _good_ and as _honourable_ as his father and siblings, as a true Stark should’ve been. Yet, a soft look, a bold statement and a firm voice from his wife changed him in a way he had not expected. Daenerys wasn’t above him or beneath him, as all people he had met were. She was his equal and she would not let him think of her any other way. It made him hesitate, for he had always been sure of his standing when dealing with his father and his family and his people and his servants, but suddenly, there she was, not less or more than his own standing.

He had always been…strange. Adrift, too forward and too far apart from what was the norm to properly fit in. A bastard, but yet an heir to a great piece of land. A lord, but yet so poor — at first, because the Others took him, he would _not_ have let himself fall into the greedy hands of their investors. He would’ve found a way out their debt, even if they had not found those mines. — and young. Too young, but old enough to deal with things himself. His mind had always set him apart from what his father expected; Jon had always wanted more, always planned more, always _dreamt_ more.

He felt so alone. So utterly alone for so long, without knowing how it was to have someone to touch him and be with him simply for him…Jon did not know what _this_ was. It wasn’t what he had with Robb, with snarky comments and heavy hitting and crude jokes. It wasn’t Arya, where he made his best to guide and protect her from what she couldn’t understand. It wasn’t Ramsay and how Jon commanded him, how the older boy showed him how to be independent, to think outside of what his father expected and what others wanted. This…companionship? Friendship? Whatever it was that he and his wife were slowly creating between kisses and long conversations into the night, it made him different.

Stroking the smooth skin of her leg while she laid tucked into his chest, nuzzling into her bright tressed or exploring her features with just the tip of his fingers wasn’t what he expected from their duty. The way he wanted so desperately to have her moaning in his ear and feel the tight embrace of her around him wasn’t…it wasn’t what it was supposed to be.

As husband and wife, they should only fuck and have their heirs, not feel the pleasure they should. He was supposed to be her lord and she, his lady, always ready for him. But then, Jon could not picture a better way on how to deal with all they had together. One moment they were reading over their shared plans from just the other day; when they had faced the Lannisters and kissed under the Winter Roses, Jon arguing with her over the best way they should proceed with a dealing and in another she was teaching him how to dance in some Essosi way and in another moment they were whispering to each other like giggling children. A paper marriage had turned out to be something else, something… _more._

Everything was spiralling out of his control too fast. Nothing went as planned and that had never happened before. Jon was lost and more scared than ever, he had no way of knowing what the future had reserved for him. Was Dany faking? Was she putting up a face? Would she simply throw him aside once they arrived in Queenscrown and she had her seat as a true Targaryen? What would happen to him? To Ramsay, and Satin, and Anguy, and Siro?

It made him lost and confused and the idea of staying in Winterfell, where he knew everything would stay as it was, was never more appealing.

Arya’s pleas still rung in his mind, loud and clear as Winterfell’s bells. The temptation to stay with his blood, where he knew he would be safe and somewhat…accepted?

No, Jon thought. He had never truly been accepted and that was merely a longing of his. It would certainly be easier to remain there, loose of the responsibilities and the touch of a stranger of a wife. There would be no lordly duties to the Wall, or negotiations and petty games. No plotting or constant paranoia, no spies to deal with or people to worry about who wasn’t his family.

I could ask to stay, Jon thought numbly and distant. He could argue with his father that he wished to remain by his side until his six and tenth nameday, when he finally took his official role as lord, with no regent to protect him. Daenerys would go North because he knew she would want to go North instead of staying back at Winterfell, and he’d have another year with his father and siblings.

And that, of course, would _never_ happen.

As _if_ Jon would let go of his power and his castle and his city. It wasn’t right, his father would certainly disapprove and Lady Catelyn would say to all who could hear _‘I told you so’_ because Jon Snow was a bastard and he _wanted._ There was once a time that he had hated how he was used by the king to humiliate his wife, the girl Daenerys, but that time had long passed and Jon much preferred the life he gained from her humiliation.

Though his love for Arya was great, Jon knew he had no future in Winterfell. At best, he now knew, he would’ve gone to the Wall had it not been for Dany. It felt like something tearing itself apart from his very core, the thought of leaving his little wild sister behind and being so far away from the she-wolf, but Jon _had_ to go. Jon _wanted_ to go, despite his fears. It would take time for her to understand, for her to truly appreciate how fucking lucky her bastard brother had gotten, but it would happen. He hoped only that she’d forgive him, and not resent Dany so much.

Sighing, Jon looked idly at the shy glimpse of daylight coming through the narrow windows and falling over his wife's side of the bed. Sitting on the bed, Jon wondered where Dany would take him and what she would make of him as he gazed at her relaxed form. The slight girl laying down beside him, chest down on the bed with their shared pelt resting lightly over her small waist did not seem like the heavy weight of responsibility that had fallen over him the moment they married under his Gods’ eyes. Jon bent his legs, hugging his thighs close to his chest as he laid his cheek on one knee, grey eyes glued to the girl bathed in early sunlight, innocent and ignorant of the waking world around her.

One of his fingers slowly reached for a lone curl on her back, twirling his finger into the silky lock while he dragged his blunt nail over her skin. Daenerys arched into the bed, like a cat, whining lowly while nosing her pillow. Her skin was warm. She made him smile, grey eyes softening as he dragged his finger up her spine. Her hair shone silver and light gold, bold against their dark covers and gleaming like starlight. Jon had wondered at some point if she was the reincarnation of the Ice Dragon taken human form, here to either mock him or seduce him to an early death, like the sailors from White Harbor and Sea Dragon Point had told him years ago.

A keening noise from her shattered his silly musings, making him snort and roll his eyes at himself as he finally reached her neck, gripping it from behind as he moved atop her. His mouth twitched up even as he felt his cheeks warm up and his member harden as he straddled her behind. Jon took a careful grip on her neck and begun massaging, not sure of what he was doing, but knowing from her pleased mewing that she was enjoying it.

It was a silent agreement between them that, should one enjoy whatever the other was doing, they should keep doing it.

If they didn’t, the other would say stop, and that was it.

One of his hands supported his upper body by bracing himself onto the mattress with his fingers splayed open near her face. He was so concentrated in pleasuring her, he almost jumped when one small hand joined his on the mattress, intertwining their fingers as she sighed. Jon gasped briefly as she arched her arse up against his groin.

“Dany!”

She chuckled, twisting her neck into his grip so she was looking up at him over her shoulder.

“You started, Lord Targaryen.” Jon bit his lip and hid his face behind his hair, looking down at the small of her back so she could not see the way the title affected him.

Too bad, she already knew how he felt about it.

His mouth hung open as her tongue danced across one of his fingers while she thrust her hips up, making him jerk widely forward once before stopping with a growl. She was awkwardly twisting her neck so she could put her mouth around one of his fingers. He kneeled on the mattress, giving space for her to turn over on her back. She kept her hold over his hand while he loosened his hold over her neck.

“What are you doing?!” He hissed out, feeling a numb kind of panic and arousal and confusion because she was _sucking on his finger and what the actual fuck?!_

Cheeks red, Daenerys took his finger out of her mouth with an obscene ‘pop’ that made him blush to the root of his hair. She looked up at him bashfully, making him seriously consider running out of their chambers to his own private one, like he had done after their first night.

“Don’t you like it?” She gulped and bit her lower lip, distracting him. Her voice was so raspy from sleep and her mouth looked so _succulent._ “Is it weird?”

“If I like it?!” He asked faintly. “Of course I…! Weird? What do you even? Where did…?!” He literally squeaked in frustration, falling back onto her lap, sitting on her while he covered his flaming face with his hands. Jon took a long moment to calm himself down and gather his composure, which he had never lost before meeting his wife. Small hands, almost as familiar to him than his own, slowly moved his hands away from his blushing face. Jon obeyed her silent request and looked down at her worried face. He blushed — his head would explode if he continued to do so — and slowly nodded. “I liked it.” He murmured, hands grasping tightly to her own. “I liked it _a lot._ ” His voice changed from high to low and Dany giggled.

She rose from the bed, her hands letting go of his to go around his shoulders and bring his head down. “That’s good.” She breathed over his lips. The new Targaryen relaxed in her embrace, melting against her body. His hard member pressed against her belly and he knew she was wet under him. He tightened his legs around her while his hands circled the back of her neck and brought her up into a kiss. He pressed hard against her mouth, opening his own and licking, surprisingly meeting her own tongue.

They chuckled, finding amusement in their hunger for each other.

She bit him and backed away, still holding to his lip while giving him a sly look he was slowly getting used to. She let his lip go and kissed it softly. “You need to go, Jon.”

“Hmm…” He particularly couldn’t care less for those Southerners. He did not want to be their guide while they toured Wintertown. “Don’t wanna…” He nosed her shoulder, dragging the tip of it to her neck and sucking at the smooth skin near there, intent on making one of those bruises. He quite enjoyed seeing those marks on her body, and his too, now that he stopped to think about it.

Dany nipped at his ear. “My lord…”

He let go of her skin and licked all the way up to _her_ ear. “ _My lady.”_ As expected, she squealed cutely and shoved him back so she could fall back on the bed, covering her face with both hands. Jon let himself fall against her legs as he laughed.

“Jon! That _voice_! Don’t…It’s…Gods. _Jon!_ ”

“It’s nothing but my…ah, how did you put it?” He teased, rolling on the bed to his side, hoisting himself up with his elbows. He smirked at her, meeting the one vibrate violet eye peeking through her thin fingers. “ _My manly voice._ ”

“Silence, Jon!” And she threw a pillow at his face. He let it collide on him as he fell back on the bed, laughing way too much at such silliness. “Jon!” At her frustrated call, Jon only laughed more, turning his back on her as he held his stomach. One moment later and she was throwing her body over his and soon they were brawling on the bed. Dany made her best to cover his loud laughs and he tried his damn best to get away from her.

They fell to the ground and he snaked his arms around her, falling on his back while she was on top of him. They gasped and laughed at each other as Jon lifted his back from the ground to sit with her on his lap. Jon looked at her with soft eyes as she slowly prodded his back as much as she could, silently checking for injuries as she carefully studied his face for any indication of pain.

Jon wondered when was the last time he had been so carefree. He wondered if someone had ever looked after such a small thing for him like if he had hurt himself from falling from his bed. Jon wondered when was the last time he had been so…so…

“Are you well, my lord?” Her soft voice dissipated his pondering, making him focus on her again. She had freckles, he noticed briefly before diving into her for a kiss. He gave her soft touches, worshipped her full lips, giving as much as she did and hoping one day he could be as good as someone like her deserved. “Jon?” She whispered against his lips.

He shushed her, softly, as he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. She understood as he knew she would. Her hands travelled down his torso, dragging her fingernails on his skin and making shudder. With his mouth hanging open, Jon gasped softly when her hands circled around his member, moving up and down, so slowly he thought he would die. Dany moved her lips to his cheek, giving soft kisses and small licks where she went.

“Yes…” He breathed out harshly, letting his head fall forward and his forehead rest against her shoulder. He was panting too much and he felt too hot. Her hands were like fire on him and he couldn’t stop himself from jerking into her hands. “Ah,” He pressed his head against her skin, biting his lip so hard he expected to tear it open. “So-sorry…” She shushed him again.

“Do it, Jon.” Frowning, Jon moved back. Meeting her beautiful gaze, he was silent for a few seconds, just taking in her own disheveled appearance — glazed violet eyes, wild silver curtain falling over pert nipples and small shoulders, a soft and sculpted body that spoke of the fighting lessons she told him about — before pushing her down with his hand still holding her neck, letting his forehead rest against hers.

“I want you to feel good too.” He spoke earnestly, softly, just for her to hear. Dany’s face reddened, and her eyes shined like stars as she smiled at him, wobbly and happy. Nodding against his skin, she moved back, letting go of him. Jon moaned embarrassingly loud, but Dany didn’t seem to care much, only smiling softly at him as she adjusted herself on his lap.

His hands cupped her breasts, light little weights in his hands as his thumbs played with her nipples. Dany hummed in pleasure, arching against his touch. Looking down, he could see her mound, soft silvery curls, shirt and thin between her legs and hiding her cunt underneath. Her hands grasped over his as she whined, a deep furrow between her brows telling him that he wasn’t paying enough attention to her.

With a growl, his arms circled around her and he pulled her body flush against his. Dany went on her knees as his left hand went down between her legs. He dragged two fingers from her womb, through the thin hair covering her cunt, spreading her open. Dany was almost sobbing now, arching against him as one hand grabbed at his hair, holding firmly. She was almost leaning down, trusting the arm around her to keep her from falling back. Her other arm extended down her body, thin fingers going his as he massaged her cunt. She bit her lip, holding back a loud moan as he pinched her nub, played with her sleek core, even caressed her own fingers.

It was messy and confusing and the greatest thing Jon had ever done. And when he _finally_ drew back, taking her hand with his, and replaced their fingers with his member, Jon could’ve cried.

Jon wanted to fuck her really hard and it made him so fucking ashamed.

He brought her closer to his body, trying thrust upwards. She started fucking _bouncing_ on his cock and Jon’s eyes rolled back for a moment as he cried out. Up and down, up and down, and Jon couldn’t think straight, couldn’t really understand nothing else other than how tight she held him and how it felt to be inside her. He couldn’t hold for long, really, he couldn’t. With a grunt, he spilt inside her but still she kept moving, keening and whining and sobbing while Jon tried to hold her close despite the boneless feeling of release.

He was softening but still, she hadn’t reached her own pleasure.

Well, he wouldn’t have that.

Chest to chest, Jon hugged her close and kissed her hard. Dany was breathing harshly, drunk on her unreached release after he moved away. He let go of her, turning on his knees as she sagged back on her hands.

With her hands supporting her, she had her knees drawn up, leaving her cunt exposed, spilling with his seed and her own fluids and making Jon blush to the roots of his hairs. He kneeled in front of her and between her legs. One hand pushed her lightly to the ground and she laid tense as a bowstring with her arms thrown back. He pushed her legs further apart and opened her up, leaning down and blowing over her folds.

“Aaah, yessss…” She arched up, pushing her legs apart as much as she could and pushing herself closer to his face. Jon smirked, one arm moving over womb to hold her down as finally put his mouth on her cunt.

He adored her as much as he could with his mouth, the scent of her making him delirious as he licked and sipped at her core. Jon dined her, enjoying every drop she gave him. Her little nub was stiff and swollen, begging to be played with, which he did with vigour.

Her screams echoed in his ears and when she grabbed his hair and pulled, he growled against her cunt. She grunted loudly, jerking wildly and trying to pull him closer still as he lapped at her pearl, biting it slightly in reproach to her painful tugging and making her cry out again. Her thighs locked on his head, hurting but telling of how close she was.

Jon knew Daenerys by now, to the point where every twitch and turn of her was like a sentence, his mind making immediate translations to the slightest change to her moving. When she finally reached her peak, it was like a song to him, unrestrained and sinful, played masterfully by him with her as his instrument. She gasped, whimpered, and finally sighed, sagging on the ground into a boneless way, like a cat.

He lapped at her, licking his way up her body and gliding his skin against her. She hummed, hands massaging his scalp gently. He nipped at her collarbone, straddling her hips as his hands massaged her tits and then moved to her back, moving her up slowly. Daenerys moved, kneeling and letting him fall back on his ass so she could straddle his lap once more.

His behind was cold and the ground was uncomfortable and harsh again his skin, his back and knees hurt, but her soft body and scent made him drift into a numbing serenity. Her hands gripped the back of his head, his hair a mess between her fingers as he mirrored her position. They breathed together, breathed each other, for a long while before he tucked her into their bed, grabbed a coat to hide his nude form and went to his own room to prepare for his leaving.

 

•••

 

Jon wished more than never that he had stayed back at Winterfell, like Robb, and took care of Bran’s training.

The young lord held back a yawn as he galloped along with his small retinue of lords and knights. Conversation was almost nonexistent as the Southerners all seemed to follow Jon blindly in their sleep-deprived states. Jon could barely blame them. Feasts were continuous in the last days, and even his fellow Northmen were put to test with such little time to spare for sleep. Jon could have turned away their invitation to venture into Wintertown, which he knew better than even his father — not that his father spared much thought to the Small Folk; at least, not as much as Jon. — but…

His eyes moved to the older boy on a grey mare by his side. Ramsay was as alert as ever, inhumanly so, as he seemed to not have the proper functionalities as a normal Northmen. Jon narrowed his eyes at him and then turned back to their path.

They had business to deal with in town, and Dany had agreed that it’d better for them to go quickly and unsuspectingly.

His face almost broke into a grin at the thought of his clever wife. She had just waltzed into their lives without a care to what they thought what a woman should do. Even Ramsay had somewhat mellowed down to her, bowing down to her orders as if they were given by Jon himself

 _That_ was no simple accomplishment.

Swaying to the slight movement of his mount, Jon threw his head back and let the sun hit his face, warming him up against the cool breeze. He cracked his neck and then let his eyes move around the faces that surrounded him with cool appraisal.

Renly Baratheon was the closest, as the loudest of the bunch. The man had a charm to him that attracted many, and he was a manipulative little bitch, according to Ramsay. No obvious likes or dislikes, but he enjoyed the company of men alright. Younger men, Ramsay had snorted out, as he then proceeded to rent about knight systems and how the Baratheon had knighted the youngest Tyrell just to fuck him more easily.

Ramsay did not like Renly because, according to him, the Baratheon had butchered the system just to fuck. Ramsay had also proceeded to point at Satin and say that there was a reason for whores like him to exist. Of course, it had made them argue and fight for days, which was a nightmare to Jon himself.

Wondering if his wife knew of her cousin’s preference, Jon turned his eyes to the portly Lannister surrounded by none less than five knights as his personal guards. A landed knight himself, Kevan Lannister was as shrewd as his infamous House was said to be. That shrewdness had counted for a hard negotiation that had lasted for two days and the only conclusion of it was the agreement that it would be concluded in Queenscrown.

Rumour had it — or at least, Ramsay said, — that Tywin had sent the man just for a laugh, probably. The Seven Realms had thought them a joke and Jon had thrown in their faces that they were not, but few were the Houses of Westeros that had truly seen the Union of Ice and Fire, as Ramsay would say. It had turned out to be an insanely good advantage, but also a pain in their arses. Things would move at a slower pace because they had such few Great Houses as witnesses, but the impact would be bigger as the news reached all corners of the world, allowing them the chance to not go begging for their attention, but _them_ actually trying to contact House Targaryen for negotiations.

Lannister, Tyrell, Baratheon and Martell, Jon thought as he remembered the Sand bastards of Oberyn Martell. The Viper had taught his daughters well; Jon would have never known who they were if it weren’t for Dany. Though he had exchanged letters with Prince Doran and the man had sent an official representative, Jon had not expected that he would send someone of his own blood so soon. Their palace had been an exchange for their water system, and Jon had said little of his discoveries to the man, but now he could confirm Ramsay’s suspicious; their dealings had something to it. Something had made the man approach Ned with his first offerings and now he wanted to find a way to prod even further into Jon’s home…

Jon had big plans for Dorne. He planned to have strong deals with the Reach and Dorne, as they had the best ports. The Crownlands were out of the question as Jon had no desire to ever negotiate in King’s Landing. The Tarths were a given way to the Stormlands, and though the Lord of the Stormlands himself had graced Jon’s marriage with his presence, the man hadn't been much interested in negotiations, preferring to shower his cousin in gifs and enjoy the feasts and training courtyard.

For Dorne, Jon had access to Sunspear, but he had hoped for a second port in the extreme South, one giving more access into the Summer Sea in case of things with the Reach not going the way he planned. But those plans were butchered, to his ever-growing chagrin, because House Dayne was gaping missing tooth in the Dornish revenue.

House Dayne was…They hadn’t come. Which was a disappointment, but Jon would have to deal with it as it came. Ramsay said that something had barred them from coming to the wedding or, most likely, no one there would’ve wanted to see the bastard of the man who had ruined Ashara Dayne’s life. Their vacancy was another butchered plan, as none from that House had arrived. But it was still possible that someone would come along once news reached the Realms.

They had no one from the Riverlands, Vale nor Crownlands, other than the Houses who were sworn to Dragonstone, and thus, to Dany. It was exactly as Jon had predicted, but it still stung to be so easily thrown aside because he was a bastard and she, a Targaryen.

Yet, Dany’s speech was truly a blessing in disguise. Her words and actions would be enough to call forward small folk and prod the King a bit. They just needed a bit of time to establish themselves as an irreplaceable powerhouse for the Night’s Watch. They also needed something unique so they could lure all those stupid Houses into Queenscrown. He just needed to figure out a way to properly invest his capital.

Trading in Westeros was a bitch to go about, especially because most of the population just didn’t have the money or purpose. Nothing and no one would want them for a while, but they had the raw material to call enough attention from the higher places. Jon would bet that in a few moons time, there would a whole bunch of lordlings knocking at his door with some hundreds of peasants wishing for a better life. Jon suspected people travelling from Dorne, as they were prone to adventure and the ship dealings he had planned would provide easy transportation. He also hoped for people from the Westerlands, in search of the Targaryen riches. Those two Kingdoms would be their primary targets. Unfortunately, people couldn’t go through the sea to Eastwatch as easily as he wished, but that could be solved if they made a few contracts on the side with their sailor guests from all over the world.

That would also give passage to trade with the East, Far East — if the many Yi Tish and other races that he saw around Winterfell were to say something — and South. They could potentially become a trade centre, despite their obvious horrible location for it. It was a farfetched dream that even Ramsay didn’t believe in, but the presence of so many foreigners certainly lighted the fire within Jon to somehow make it happen.

Unlike their dealing with Westerosi, those of the East were already deeply rooted into Queenscrown’s midst, providing for a strong connection and future trade as soon as he went back to Queenscrown, to show them the results of their investment and hard work. All there was left was for them to initiate the trade, but the deals were signed and the documents guarded. Everything else was all but set in stone, and there was talking of turning their eyes West, to where no one in the Seven Kingdoms had gone before.

In Westeros, things would go at a much slower way than he desired, yes, but as for the rest of the world…

A smirk grew on his lips, devilish and dark as Wintertown finally came into view.

“You seem positively savage, my lord Targaryen.”

Anguy, the older of Ramsay’s man and their best archer, much to Ramsay’s chagrin, jerked his mare forward, barring Ser Garlan Tyrell from approaching Jon. The man’s exclamation of surprise brought faint amusement to Jon as he raised his hand, signing the man off with a flicker of his fingers. The man nodded at him and moved back, opening the formation so Ser Garlan could go closer.

Jon stared at him, silent and cold, but inside he was truly guffawing at the man’s terrified face. While Jon had come to understand the flowery way the Reachmen talked, it amused him the same amount as it annoyed. Sam, though he was fairly direct nowadays, had many a time slipped into his strange habit of describing things — usually food, or girls, or books, —in the most flowery and fancy way possible, in the true way of the Reach. But Sam was a boy, a boy who did not care for the frivolities of his home, while Jon was facing the pinnacle of the Reach’s fanciness; a Tyrell to boot.

He nodded to the knight. “Ser, I hope the festivities were to your tastes.” Small talk. That’s what he had to do. Satin taught him that.

Ser Garlan grinned at him. “Why, thank you. It has been an incredible experience.” He tilted his head to the Town. “I fear that if the infamous Wintertown is to be as much welcoming as your father’s House than I shall go back home as plump as when I was in my boyhood!” Jon smiled faintly at the man. It made him look strangely at Jon and he hastily stared forward, berating himself for even attempting. He chose to hum quietly in response, fidgeting with his reins.

They stood in silence and Jon could hear Ramsay’s faint voice behind him, obviously mocking him. Jon did not allow himself to turn towards the other bastard and throw something at his stupid face.

By the corner of his eyes, Jon could see Ser Garlan fidgeting awkwardly over his horse, opening and then closing his mouth. _Great_ , he thought annoyingly, _now I have made thing awkward with an important member of one of the Great Houses._ Jon could just feel the disappointment in both Sam and Ramsay at his obvious lack of social skill. To hell with them, he wanted to say. Too bad he had common sense.

House Tyrell had gifted them scented oils and other things that were meant to be for his wife. A frivolous gift, luxurious but impersonal to any other should someone pry for their connections. The true gift had been given when Jon and Dany had met with Ser Garlan privately, to discuss future dealings.

Lord Willas Tyrell had sent one of his best hawks, trained and bred personally by him and of a rare breed indeed. The animal was a gorgeous beast, big and with talons longer than Jon’s hand. A hawk strong and fast enough to cross the Seven Kingdoms, robust enough to be able to endure the cold climate of the North with immense wings that would carry him all the way South, to the very heart of the Reach, to Highgarden.

House Tyrell had always been loyal to House Targaryen, and Jon had been counting on their loyalty to somehow find a way to pass inconspicuously by all the eyes directed at their dealings. Now, Jon had a safe way to get in contact with the older heir of one of their most powerful potential allies.

“I heard you sister chose my wife’s gifts…” Jon started, hesitating over his words for a second, but Ser Garlan immediately followed along. The man’s eyes narrowed at him for a second before he smiled more openly at Jon, his clear teeth gleaming under the early sunlight.

“Ah, yes! Margaery has a vision, or better yet,” He chuckled. “A nose for these kinds of womanly things! She was delighted to be tasked to choose Lady Targaryen’s gifts.” He looked at Jon expectantly and Jon just stared back with a blank face, not sure what he was supposed to do. A short moment passed before the man turned forward with a guffaw. “Gallant I may be called, but I can see I have not a drop humour here in the North.” He proceeded to laugh loudly.

_That was a joke?!_

Jon gulped and frowned at their path ahead. It seemed an awfully long way until they reached the town and he could part with the man.

 

•••

 

The putrid smell of the town was the first thing that Jon always noticed upon arriving.

It was said in Winterfell that Jon had become awfully spoiled by his own fledgeling city, built to completely erase any foul smell coming from the people’s shit and waste. Every town was shit unless you were speaking about Queenscrown, then you bet you were taking a walk through a flourishing garden in the middle of a city, next to a nice marketplace.

Jon still insisted that his city smelled like oranges and limes, but Ramsay and Robb only laughed at him and called him delusional.

When their retinue finally entered therein street, they were greeted by a wonderful bucket of shit and chicken guts being thrown from the second story of a house right into the street, splashing dirty liquid everywhere. People didn’t blink an eye, but Jon was already twisting his nose in disgust, Ramsay and Anguy chuckling behind him while he could hear Satin retch drily.

The Southerners, used by such things in small folk’s towns and their big cities, only directed their horses away, some already getting down from their mounts or moving somewhere else. Ser Garlan, who had chatted away all the way into town, finally gave his goodbyes, heading for an inn.

Lord Renly and his army of friends and knights approached them, the man at the very front with his Tyrell lover close. Jon looked at them coldly and nodded slowly to Ramsay, allowing them passage as they moved beside him.

“So, cousin, where are we headed at?” He smiled widely, blue eyes twinkling as he made a flourish with his hand. Jon’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance as he scowled before he turned back to the road, paying attention to the town residents walking around them. Most of them flicked away from their group.

Moving his gaze towards the balconies above them, Jon could see them looking, whispering. Some old ladies appeared to be praying quietly while mothers took their curious children away, closing the windows sharply. Jon huffed, annoyed by their scared behaviour even as he could just _feel_ Ramsay’s giggles.

“I am heading for an apothecary, my lord,” He spoke slowly, not once moving his eyes away from their surroundings to see the lord’s — his _cousin in law,_ according to Dany, and the man himself. — reaction. “My lady is curious about some of the Northern common herbs…” A valid excuse, he knew. Daenerys was a curious being who enjoyed to know what the people enjoyed. His wife said that she enjoyed buying what they had to offer, to know what they had available for themselves instead of relying only on what the castle had.

It was convenient, Jon thought. Their glasshouses and gardens were outside of their castles, opened to the masses and carefully guarded as the closest districts to the main castle.He wondered what Dany would make of the orchards and beautiful glasshouses, much more elaborate and fancy than the one in Winterfell. Bigger in quantity, complexity and size, Queenscrown’s Inner Greenbelts were a thing of beauty that Jon was sure would call for many curious tourists and others.

It also made everything smell way better than the stinky cities of anywhere, Jon thought, disgust clear in his face as they passed a dark alleyway that people probably used as a public pot chamber, going by the smell of the place.

“Ah! Young Daenerys, always a curious little thing,” Dany was no little thing if Jon had anything to say about her. “Could I accompany you, perhaps?”

 _Fuck no,_ was Jon’s most sincere response, because he really needed to go alone and deal with his own stuff, and that couldn’t be done while the judging eyes of the King’s younger brother and master of law there as a witness. Jon turned his face to his other side, where Anguy silently followed him. His other guard, Siro, was right behind him, on the rear of their group beside Satin. Ramsay had moved behind, right to Satin’s side so he could give space for the Lord Baratheon.

They couldn’t make a run for it, it would probably be bad for his House’s image.

He’d think of something.

“Let’s head to the stables first,” Jon said, louder this time, jerking his reins and sharply turning on a corner. The lordlings scrambled to follow along, even his guards, but Jon didn’t pay heed to them, mind furiously whirling as he tried to think of a way to dispose of the lords’ attention.

He made his mount go faster, surprising a few women on the other street as he busted out, a string of other men following him on their own mounts. They needed to be fast; when things happened a bit more fast than usual, people tended to lose themselves in the fray.

He would let the lordlings search for him while he faded away into the crowd.

The stables came into view, a stableboy sitting by the entrance noticed their ruckus. The boy seemed to recognize Jon, bolting to his feet and called a few other ones. Jon made a sharp stop in front of the boy, meeting his eyes with a hard stare as he got down his horse, handing the reins to the young one. Jon turned around, seeing his guards being attended first by the boys. The four of them were quick to close around Jon.

His guards closed their formation around him. Jon stood in the centre, sharp eyes moving from one lord to another as they were left behind. Still, a few of them persisted, chatting and looking at Jon’s group with growing suspicion that made him purse his lips in frustration, a low growl rising from his chest.

Renly’s voice boomed around the chaos as he greeted the servants, losing himself to the attention. Jon turned away from them, passing by the boy while Satin was quick to handle a few Star copper coins to him.

Jon turned around the corner of the stables, entering a busy street full of vendors. His hands grabbed the hood resting on the back of his neck and pulled it over his head. As the heavy cloth fell over the upper half of his face, Jon pressed forward through the crowd. His guards shifted around him, dressed in black and putting up their hoods. They all formed an indistinguishable group, moving as one.They parted slightly, letting people pass through their group and make them blend into the crowd.

Ramsay moved behind him so he was standing at his left, Satin going to his right as the other two stepped forward. The fine mist of the morning made it more easy for them to blend into the crowd of early vendors and passing travellers, rising lazily to the sky.

His guards closed tight around him for a short moment, ready to listen to his orders. Jon’s fine hairs on his body stood on end, his whole body singing at the thrill. He moved gracefully, fully were of every move as the four around him copied seamlessly, waiting and breathing at his every word. He knew what to do and he knew how to do it, as efficiently and quickly as possible, with no waste of energy or resources. He breathed out, mist coming from his hot breath meeting the cold air of the morning. His muscles tensed, his whole body shifted and he uttered a single word that rang out among them as the order it was.

“Mingle.”

With one word from him, they moved. The five boys spread into the crowd. Jon moved to the left, going close to the buildings and leaving the centre of the street while Satin stomped through the crowd. Ramsay turned sharply into a corner and disappeared between buildings while the other two turned around, heading in the opposite direction from Jon, Ramsay and Satin were going to.

He remained close to the buildings, moving around the people without ever stopping. Soon, he saw a cart. Jon walked into it and used it to hoist himself up into the balcony of a store.He jumped again, grabbing onto hard rocks and pushing himself up. Looking down, no one noticed his daring climb. Some street kids pointed up at him but as his eyes fell upon them, they quickly scrambled away. Jon glued his back to the wall, crouched low, and moved across a wood beam as fast as he could, stopping beside an open window and entering what he knew to be an empty room of the store.

He closed the wood window behind him while he fished for the small key in the pouch strapped to his thigh. Jon went to the closed door of the room, unlocking it with his key and entering a corridor. He closed and locked the door again, quickly, as he heard the oncoming voice of two girls. They appeared down the hall just as he turned away from the door, gasping at the sight of him and scrambling back from where they came.

He huffed out a breath, hastily pulling the bottom part of the cape over his mouth. He really should arrange something to cover the bottom half of their faces.

Jon turned away from the hall, searching from the small stairs that led to a small attic where the owner of the apothecary — he told Renly he was heading there, after all. — kept some of his rarer species. It had a small window that gave way to a small side street that would give quick passage to the brothel.

A quick and very unnoticeable passage, might he add.

Jon opened the window, crouching low onto the small alcove outside as he closed it. He looked down and gulped. On the other side, there was a small house with a sturdy roof that could handle his weight. Without thinking too much about it, Jon jumped, landing into a roll and immediately going into a run. He remained as low as he could, not wanting to call attention from the residents of the taller structures.

Feet throbbing, Jon crossed over to the other side of the roof, where a small shitty alleyway was the perfect spot for him to jump without calling for too much attention. He did so with only mild disgust, landing and immediately holding his breath so as to not inhale the foul scent of whatever the fuck was in that place.

He crossed the alleyway where at its entrance, around its corner and watching the crowd move about on the street, was one of his guards. Jon exited the alleyway without stopping to greet who he knew was Ramsay.

His personal guard didn’t hesitate in following him through the questionable crowd of people. Ramsay loomed close, face carefully hidden and holding the pommel of his preferred dagger just a bit out, as to warn others of his weaponry.

People just assumed he had one dagger if they attacked, and that was their mistake.

They turned in another corner, approaching the edge of the town, near the Kingsroad entrance. Soon, whores were roaming the streets too. The foul scent in this part was the worse, as the poorer parts of anyplace were. Jon snapped his jaw shut, a dark furrow between his brows as they approached the brothel. Three buildings away from the place, coming from inside a dinky tall building of wood and stone, came another one of his guards. This one, Satin, walked in front of them, guiding them into the brothel without ever hesitating.

Entering, the sounds of pleasure and scent of sex were unbearable. Nothing like when he was with Dany, Jon thought idly as they approached a red-haired woman sitting at a table. Ramsay hastened his pace, stopping in front of her long enough for her to recognize him and get up from the table. They were taken into the main administration area. They passed the kitchen and a few closed doors before they stopped before a small and sturdy wooden door.

“He’s down there,” She spoke lowly, staring at them with wide eyes full of fear and anticipation. Jon nodded and stepped forward as Ramsay dealt with her reward.

“Be sure to speak with your matron, Ros,” Satin spoke to her. “It’d not be good if you all were to fall out of our favour, but you did well this time.” The slight threat made Jon’s lips twitch in amusement. Satin had sure evolved from the meek boy he had first met.

The woman nodded and unlocked the door for them, Ramsay being the first to enter. Jon followed him while Satin stayed behind, standing guard in front of the door. They had to crouch down a bit while going down the slim stone staircase. The air was thin and suffocating, the place far too humid. It was warm and dark, they could only see the slight glow of fire by the end of the stairs.

Entering the room, a small wooden table housed a small candle just beside the entryway. Ramsay grabbed it and walked further into the room. As they moved, the light revealed a tied up young man, quiet as a mouse, staring up at them with terrified eyes. He was young and pretty enough, thin and dirty. His leg was obviously broken, bent backwards. His hair was long and dark, with vivid blue eyes staring up at them.

“Well, well, well…” Ramsay said, stepping forward and crouching low next to the boy. “If it isn’t the prettiest whore in town.” He pushed his hood back, revealing his face to the boy and making him scream, muffed out by the peace of dirty cloth in his mouth. “We meet again, hmm?” His guard poked the cheek of the boy, the bruised one, making him flinch away with a short scream of pain. He was breathing heavily from his nose, tears and snot running down his face. Ramsay pressed harder, making his face dig on the dirt ground. “How ye doing?”

“Ramsay.” The older boy stood up, turning to him with a small smile. He stepped back and rested his back against the wall, holding the candle towards the boy. Jon stepped forward and crouched down, one knee on the ground as he stared down at the boy.

He moved his hand to his face and the boy flinched away, making Jon stop for a moment. His hand remained there, between them, for a few moments while Jon stared silently at the boy. Jon knew exactly what the other one saw.

A small, dark figure hidden by dark clothes. Slim and shorter than Ramsay or any man, obviously younger and still in command of the older, crazier, boy. His solemn silence surely made for an even stranger figure, slow and watchful while Ramsay was all jerky movements and mocking one-sided conversation. What would his father think of him, Jon thought while he moved his hand closer to the boy again, moving the dirty piece of cloth.

The dirty rag stained his fingers and Jon could feel the drool on it. He was quick to wipe his hand on the thick cloth of his cape. The boy immediately screamed as high as he could, as soon as the rag was out of his mouth.

“HELP! SOMEONE!” Ramsay kicked him in the balls and kept kicking as Jon wiped his hand and stood up from the floor.

“You think—” Ramsay kicked him again. “Someone would help—” He stopped, the boy moaning in pain at his feet. Ramsay crouched down and dragged him away from the corner of the room. He threw him in the middle of the room like a rag-doll. “A little shit like you?”

“Enough,” Jon spoke, staring at the young man as he wiggled on the floor, staring at the staircase in what Jon knew to be desperation. “I have some questions for you.” He moved closer to the man, crouching beside him and pulling out a small knife, cutting through the ropes that held him.

As the ropes loosened, the boy started to crawl pathetically towards the stairs. His fingers and arms were broken, Jon noted dully.

“H-help…” He sobbed out, breathing into the ground. “P-please…”

Jon stared at him, silently and numbly. Ramsay snickered and then promptly sat on the boy’s back, falling on him and making him screech in pain.

“Mercy…milord…”

He pursed his lips, moving around until he was sitting on the first steps of the stairs, finally making the young man’s eyes focus on him. “How do you know if I am a lord?”

Blue eyes stared helplessly up at him, a strangled sob coming from his mouth as he sagged against the ground. “Imma a b-bastard, milord…” He gasped, coughing dryly and spitting out blood. “Imma useless, please…”

“How. Do. You. Know.” Jon spoke more hastily now, something in him urging for an answer. What made him a lord? What made the boy see him, a small dark figure, as a fucking lord and not what he was? A bastard, just like himself. Ramsay’s hand gripped the other’s hair and pulled his head up so he was staring at Jon.

“I…I…”

“I could be a merchant for all you care. Maybe someone angry at you for what you do, or for someone you fucked.” Jon spat the words out, putting his elbows on top of his knees and intertwining his fingers. He rested his mouth against his hands, staring down at the pitiful excuse of a bastard thrown at his feet. “So, will you stop your little joke, or will you get serious?”

They stared at each other for a long while, the man gasping and spitting out drool and blood. He had been captured the previous day by Ramsay’s men in the town, and knew perfectly well why he was there. It made his hands itch for a sword, just thinking about what the man had planned to do. Jon wanted to get done as quick as he could, the room stunk of piss, shit and blood.

“Lord Targaryen,” Ah, he was going to show his true face now. “I can tell you anything you wanna, anything, just, _please,_ ” He sobbed out, face crumbling and lips trembling. “Please, get this man outta here, lemme be alone with ye and I’ll say anythin’!”

Head moving down, Jon tsked. He shook his head, hands dragging up his face and throwing his hood back. He shook his hair away from his eyes before getting up. _What would father think of me now?_

“You shall tell me everything you know about Baelish, whore,” Jon spoke softly, crossing his arms and nodding to Ramsay without moving his gaze away from the man. “And Ramsay shall punish you for each thing you say that I consider wrong.” The man cried out, jolting away from Ramsay’s hands as he pulled him by his shoulders and dragged him away from the staircase. Jon remained there, sitting and watching, wondering where was the honour in him. Where was the honour in doing this?

For Queenscrown, he decided. It was for Queenscrown and for the Gift, and for his family and his House.

The man’s screams echoed in his ears, his words striking a fire in Jon that made him harden himself for the obstacles to come.

_What would father say of what I have become?_

 

_•••_

 

 

“Make sure he disappears, do you understand?” Ramsay nodded in delight as he closed the door behind them. By the next morning, the spy would no longer be in the living realm. Ramsay closed the door behind them and Jon nodded at Satin, who moved along with them. They put their hoods over their faces, securing their identities behind dark clothes and shadows as they exited the brothel. As they passed the doors, two other figures accompanied them.

His guards all moved to their places, walking just slightly behind him as the people stared at them. Jon knew that it was an open secret who they were, here, in the poorest parts of Wintertown, but they wouldn’t dare to try and confirm who between them was the newly named Lord Targaryen. His father didn’t know, and the small folk was glad enough by the protection he could give them.

Father ignored the darker side of his lands, the traffic, the people who sold and were sold, the prostitution and even the numbing substances — in the apothecary, as it was. — that were sold for recreational purposes. Those things existed even in remote Wintertown, but that wasn’t for his father’s concern and he did not care to search for it.

It wasn’t his either, but he had decided a long time ago to make it his own business, and he would make the best of it while trying to protect his people and anyone who needed.

It was for the best, Jon thought. If he hadn’t moved and took reign of the town and its dealings, it wouldn’t prosper, and it wouldn’t be good for Father. It could potentially affect Queenscrown. At the very least, it helped the people in it and it was good practice for when his city grew.

Honour came in many ways, that was just his own brand of honour, as Ramsay would say. His honour was what he made it be. All he did, it wasn’t for himself, it was for his family, for his city, _for his people_. He had to choose what was best for them all, and if the life of one little spy was the price to pay, then he would.

His hands trembled at his side, jerking close into tight fists as his breathing fought to regulate. Jon turned sharply into a smaller street leading into the better part of the town, stopping in front of a little vendor, supporting himself onto the stall so he could try and _breathe._

The foul smell of the stupid town was making him dizzy.

Biting his tongue, Jon pushed himself away from the stall. He pushed his hands against his eyes for a moment, breathing out slowly before he let his hands fall to his sides again. His guards gave him space, the closer one being Ramsay — _always Ramsay_ — as they watched over him.

Staring down at his feet, Jon felt like he was standing at the edge of an abyss.

He remembered staring down the Flint Cliff, so high up that the sea looked like some sort of mantle. The wind had screamed in his ears, Ramsay by his side and Robb by his other. They had followed some of the local boys away from Flint’s Finger, galloping through the fields with fast horses for hours on end until they reached the stony cliff. The fall was long and hard and Jon had been the only one of them to jump behind those crazy boys.

He had thought he would die, alone and cold as he hit the water.

For some reason, he was feeling he would die right at that moment, standing near a funky vendor and surrounded by people who he trusted with his life.

“Jon?” Ramsay called.

“What?” He snapped at the older boy, turning dangerous and dark eyes to meet with his unshakeable clear ones. Ramsay didn’t appear to be affected by his glower, only nodding him to a stall on the other side of the street.

Moving his eyes to where the other had instructed, Jon found a bald man, waving costumers in and screaming loudly for all to hear. “Come, come! Come have a look at the first jewels of the North!” Jon didn’t understand, at first. Frauds were common in these areas; especially in the North, where so few of the luxury of the warmer corners of the world were appreciated. Father and the Northern could pride themselves as much as they wanted in their Northern practicability; their people cared not for such pride. They wanted comfort, and they searched for it. Still, as Ramsay had pointed the man out, there must’ve had something about him…

Jon narrowed his eyes at him, straightening and walking toward the man. His hood was securely over his face and he kept his chin low, as to not giveaway nothing of his Stark appearance.

“My good sirs are searchin’ fer anythin’ special?” The man smiled at them with rotten teeth. Behind him stood Ramsay and Anguy, Jon could tell. The other two were moving slowly so they could find somewhere behind the man without him noticing.

“Whaddaya have here?” Anguy spoke, his Dornish origins obvious and making the vendor open a bigger grin. Jon ignored them for the time being, eyes locked upon the offering pieces of gleaming metals and crystals. Surprisingly, they all seemed to be real. Not jewels as the man said, rather, they were material of fine quality.

As Anguy chatted the man up, Ramsay elbowed Jon slightly, making him turn to his guard. Ramsay’s eyes were fixed on the man’s side, and Jon followed his line of vision. There, at his side, for all to see, was a very unique piece of clothing. One that Jon had seen a lot, since his first visit to Queenscrown.

Most of the workers used a special kind of fabric to cover their faces. The purpose of the fabric was to stop the number of deaths by inhalation of the dust in the construction ground, a practice common in some parts of the South and most of Essos. By the last year, the cloth was used by the miners as well. The cloth was dark, with red and white markings. It was of high quality, once again provided by their investors of the East. It was durable, and few of them had been destroyed throughout the years. They were unique to the working force of Queenscrown.

Jon’s eyes moved down, to the displayed pieces of minerals on the stall. Each gleaming piece, a pretty coloured rock or shiny metal, was _his._

Amethysts, Jon recognized. A pile of silver and even a _diamond._ Jon knew all of those, and all of them were confirmed findings of their mountain range, not a single one of the displayed goods weren’t present in _his_ mines.

And the little piece of shit in front of him thought he could escape selling House Targaryen’s riches right under their noses.

“So, lad, something caught yer eye?” A gleaming ruby shone beautifully on the dirty cloth of the table, the early noon light passing through it beautifully. The whole table was a myriad of colours. Jon slowly dragged his gaze up. He memorized each little part of the man in front of him, from his large waist up to his bald head and his missing pinky finger. Behind the man, Jon could see the two figures of his guards looming.

Jon smiled, slowly.

“I don’t like smugglers.”

The man reeled back, blinking owlishly at him and scowling at him. “Now, look here ye lil’ cunt—” He lifted one fat finger to shove in Jon’s face. Jon did not even blink.

Grasping the man’s finger, Jon bent it back without mercy, not caring for the big man’s scream of pain as it broke. The vendors around them screamed too, as Jon’s target was grabbed from behind by his two guards. Anguy stood behind, bow and arrows in hand as he barred people away from them. People noticed the black hoods, and they quickly scrambled away.Jon kept hold of the man’s broken finger, twisting it from side to side as they dragged him into a corridor very far away.

Ramsay hastily started to collect the man’s merchandise, putting it into bags and destroying the man’s stall. Jon entered the alleyway, where two lovers quickly grabbed their clothing and ran away from them.His men threw the vendor to the floor and he howled in pain, rolling on the mud like the pig he was. Jon stomped forward and put a knife to his knee. The vendor howled louder.

Something in him roared in outrage, demanding for the man’s blood at his daring to take something that was his. That was _theirs._ Maybe it was his bastard blood, Jon thought idly, as he twisted the knife and Satin tied the man’s hands.

“Where is your honour?” He asked the man. The vendor kept screaming, howling and rolling and screeching. Jon had enough of his stupid crying and slapped him. The man still did not shut up, making him growl. One of his men threw water at the man’s face and he sputtered, coughed, gasped. “I asked you,” Jon grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled. “ _Where’s your honour?_ ”The man fumed at him and spit at Jon’s face.

Drool trickled down on his face, stinky and cold and utterly _dirty._

A ruckus at the corridor’s entrance called for his attention. Jon turned in time to see Ramsay lower his hood and speak with the Stark’s guards. Jon glared at them, fingers itching to teach the man a lesson about not stealing from him. From Dany. _From their lands._

Jon took several steps back, nodding to Ramsay as he let the guards enter the corridor. Jon let the guards grab the criminal, pushing him up. He let the man keep the Queenscrown cloth, knowing it would serve as evidence when he had to explain what happened and had to give his accusations.

Ramsay approached him, his men closing around him as he showed Jon the heavy begs in his hands. Ramsay nodded towards Anguy, and when Jon looked at the older man, he lifted two bags towards him. A cough behind him was the only warning given as Jory Cassel approached their group. Satin and Siro moved in front of Anguy, stopping anyone from seeing the bags he held. Jon turned around to face the captain of his father’s guard.

“Found a new victim, Snow?” Jory never liked him, not since Ramsay.

“This man has stolen from my lands, Cassel.” Jon spoke lowly, staring up at the man and not cringing at the slight hitch in his young voice. There was no time for embarrassment now for something he couldn’t quite control. Cassel’s face and posture changed, snapping at attention as he narrowed sharp eyes at him. “That cloth he has in his pocket is evidence of his connections to Queenscrown. He was either a miner or a worker there, and he was selling _my_ goods in Wintertown. Do you know what this means?”

The man nodded severely, moving his eyes to the smuggler. “Aye. We can’t have those Southern nobles shitfaces knowing about this, right?”

Surprised the man eve understand that political notion, Jon nodded. “Aye. It makes us look fragile and may invite them to send _their_ people to do the same instead of buying it directly from us.” At the word buying, as a true Northern, the man sneered. Jon had no time for the accusations of greed. “All of our investors may doubt of my oath on paying my debts,” Now the man truly understood, by the grave and outraged look on his face. Nothing like someone doubting the oath of a Stark, even a bastard one, to get them to do what he wanted. “Take him to the dungeons, and keep it quiet.”

“Will do, Snow.” And the man turned away from him, dismissing him as nothing worthy of his time. Jon scowled at him, but a quick glance to the smuggler’s whimpering form and the cloth he carried made him look back at Jory Cassel with a cool mask and the lifted chin his wife often wore.

“It’s Lord Targaryen, Cassel,” The captain stopped, looking at him over his shoulder with a whitening glare that Jon matched with a nasty glint in his eyes. He snapped his gaze to the man on the muddled ground. “Don’t lose him. We need to know how he did it.” _And if there are other leaks like him,_ he thought furiously, turning away from the man without waiting for his response.

The Stark guards gave him a wide berth, as they always did, and Jon stepped out into the fray. They stood there in silence for a moment, all breathing heavily and looking around the crowd. Soon, they could hear the voices of one of the lords calling for them.

“Oi!” Jon swore and ran. They all scrambled away from the group of man that had entered the town with them. Anguy disappeared into an alleyway with Siro. Jon remained with Ramsay and Satin, running through alleyways and jumping through stalls until he saw a bunch of chicken cages that gave passage to some lower balconies.

“We’ll take a quick way!” He warned them, turning sharply and jumping over a few baskets.

Satin groaned behind him. “I hate the quick way!”

“Ha!” Ramsay cackled. “Such a pansy!” Satin didn’t answer, as they had to concentrate on finding their way up towards the roof. Jon used the stocked up cages as stairs while Satin — agile as ever — jumped on one and then immediately went to grab the edge of a windowsill, hoisting himself up. Ramsay jumped on top of a man’s back as he crouched down, making the poor man dig his face into the ground, and then jumped on top of a stall — destroying it — and managing to grab on the edge of a wooden railing. All of them were quick to traverse across their chosen balconies and up to to the roofs, leaving behind a string of chaos as they ran to the stables.

 

•••

 

Arriving at Winterfell to see his brothers training, peaceful and safe, made him calm down.

Bran’s warm welcoming and Robb’s bright smile cooled his blood and temper, settling him into a peaceful state for a while when they reunited. He moved through the fighting stances, showing Bran how to better position himself for battle as Robb corrected their younger brother. A smile was stuck to his lips, even as he felt like his head was throbbing in pain and his whole being shook in anger.

He went through the motions of greeting and laughing with his family, nodding to whatever Bran exclaimed and joking around with Robb.

All of it fell flat to him.

They had successfully captured and interrogated the whore spy in Winterfell, a young man that worked for Littlefinger in brothels, installed in Winterfell months past while Jon was in Queenscrown. The man was waiting for when Jon left with Dany for Queenscrown, hoping to enter the city along with many others that would surely follow them North. Littlefinger’s machinations rang to Lord Stannis’ warning, making Jon grit his teeth and hold himself back from punching something, because, while he succeeded in stopping a Lord’s prodding in his own city, a mere smuggler with rotten teeth had escaped his watch with his riches in hands.

Theon and Ramsay jabbed at each other, loudly and goaded on by the lords around them. The groups formed a circle around the two boys while Bran ran away, no doubt itching to climb the castle’s walls. A training sword was given to Theon as Ramsay took out his dagger, spinning it forward and opening his arms in invitation.

Lord Renly and Robb both stood beside him, looking on and laughing. Jon let small chuckles fall out of his lips, not wanting to pass as too ignorant. He interacted with them enough to not raise Robb’s suspicions, but kept a sharp eye on the windows and the walkway, waiting for his Lord Father to appear at any time’s notice.

His whole being vibrated with energy, the ire and bloodlust still singing loudly for that vendor’s miserable head; he wanted justice but his justice wasn’t his Father’s kind of justice and as such, not possible to acquire in Winterfell. Jon knew that his father would soon receive news of what had happened, in a few hours time he’d be searching for Jon, to give him a punishment, no doubt.

Robb screamed at Ramsay to use a training sword, as to not actually kill Theon. The Greyjoy protested but Ramsay conceded to the request with a snicker, eyes meeting with Jon’s for a moment before he sheathed his dagger. Satin threw a sword at him, which Ramsay caught with a twirl, spinning around to grin at the crowd.

Theon did not wait for Ramsay to turn back, running at him. The older boy simply twisted around and kicked his ass as the Ironborn passed. The crowd laughed but Jon pursed his lips, watching closely and crossing his arms.

Theon would lose, as he always did.

Even now he could see the way he was paler than usual, legs shaking and a clumsy grip on the sword. His whole being shook in fear as he turned around to face Ramsay, his muscles locking as he lowered his stance. Theon had feared Ramsay for a long time, and Jon knew he had the reason for it.

When Jon had one and ten namedays, Ramsay had arrived in Winterfell, sullen and bitter to be given to some the bastard of his father’s liege as a gift. Ramsay had tormented Jon with lies, had made him hate Dany with his twisted words, and it was in bad waters that they accompanied Lord Stark to a brief tour of the west side of his lands. Theon and Robb had tagged along, and Jon felt himself being left alone, as Robb was thick friends with the Ironborn while Jon preferred to stay away from the hostage.

It was in their first stop, in Highpoint, the seat of House Whitehill, vassals to House Bolton, that Ramsay had dared to lure Theon and a girl he had taken as a lover, to their deaths.

It had been rumoured that Ramsay Snow had been sent to Jon because his own father had no use for him anymore, as he had become far too uncontrollable. Jon hadn’t believed those rumours, for he had been sure Ramsay was sent with the purpose of spying for Lord Bolton without outright insulting Lord Stark.

The truth came to light in one early morning two days after their arrival, as Theon had taken the girl for tryst out amongst the destroyed Ironwood forest and Ramsay had followed creepily behind, bow and arrows in hand. Jon had thought about ignoring them, had thought of staying behind and watching the barren hill from his perch in the castle walls.

Something inside him had urged him to follow the group.

Good thing he did, tracking them through their footprints — He could remember how faint Ramsay’s were — and tracking down the barren Hill for what felt like hours, alone and with only a mock sword in hand, young and untainted. Soon, he could hear screams, and he remembered how he had frozen, suddenly every bit scared as he recognized Theon’s voice.

He ran, as fast as he could and with all of his might, not knowing what he would find but determined to end it. The mind of the child he was had been hopeful, thinking he would burst into a clearing and stop all evil with all but a swing of a sword, because Jon he was _good_ at fighting. That ingenuity had been broken when he ran up a hill, stopping at the top and seeing Ramsay posted a few ways down from him, his bow drawn with a dozen of arrows in hand, shooting with an impossible speed at two figures in the clearing down the hill. Jon could hear Theon and the girl scream and cry, falling over themselves as Ramsay shoot arrows at them, making the couple run in endless circles.

The bastard was playing with them. He was making them run in a wide circle, Jon could even see the area marked down by arrows. He’d been frozen for a long moment, watching the morbid game and seeing it coming to a bloody end as Ramsay reached his final arrows.This shot was different from the others. Ramsay had shooting quickly, without taking aim and hitting his exact mark, but this one shot…He drew it out slowly, pulling at the bowstring while cackling madly, accompanying the running par in a devilish slow way.

He had been aiming to kill.

Jon tackled him just enough for him to miss his mark — he would later learn the boy had been aiming for the girl’s heart — and the arrow to hit her leg. The bastards had rolled down the hill, and Jon could still remember the sharp rocks cutting through his clothes as they rolled down.

Jon had beaten him senseless, to the point where the boy had been covered in blood but had cackled throughout all of his beating.

Ramsay had no sense of fear, had no regrets and would do whatever necessary. That day, he had planned to get himself killed. He knew that people would know the attacker had been him, he had used his arrows, which he had been boasting about for a long time, and had brought an important member of Lord Stark’s household for his little game. Arriving at the castle, his fate was sure to be death, bringing shame to his House for having done such unspeakable things right under Lord Stark.

Jon had left, hoping him to rot and bleed to his death, hoping to never see the idiot again. The fucker had crawled back to Highpoint, barely alive when arriving at the gates, and cackling madly when Jon had met his gaze. To this day, Jon still wondered how the hell he hadn’t died.

Ramsay was a motherfucker who didn’t fear death. Jon had let him die, just as he wanted; and the fucker crawled back from the dead just out spite. He had wanted to die while shaming his lordly father, who sent him away to some nobody’s servant; still saved his life in the end by leading Jon to take him as a hostage of some kind.

When Ramsay fought, he fought to destroy and humiliate, to kill, and he cared not what the fucking hell hit him; he would just hit back with twice as much strength.

A monster, Jon thought, watching him struck the pommel of his sword on the back of Theon’s head, not caring for the other’s strike on his other arm. Theon fell into the mud at his feet and scrambled away with a scream before Ramsay could smash his skull with his foot.

Jon knew Ramsay had let the boy believe he could scramble away in time. He knew that Ramsay had enough time and was quick enough to pound his foot down onto the boy’s head. Jon also knew that if Theon had not escaped the blow, Ramsay would not have stopped until the other was dead or Jon interrupted the fight.

Not when he was high on his bloodlust.

His personal guard turned to him, wide smile and empty eyes begging for a fight. Jon was pushed forwards to face him, and he went like in a trance, catching the sword Theon threw at him. Ramsay paced back in forth, eyeing him up like Jon was his favourite meal, ready to pounce at any moment notice.

Jon spun the training sword in his hand, moving into his preferred stance and waiting for the powerful blow that Ramsay always used in a fight. Memories of Ramsay’s games shaming Robb’s parents came to mind, making him grit his teeth and grip the sword harder, changing just position just a bit as in the last moment as Ramsay song his sword down at Jon’s head.

He would make the boy pay for daring to mess with his family.

Pivoting around the other’s body, Jon slashed at the boy’s open side. Of course, if they had armour on it wouldn’t be much more than a rogue push, but it was still a nice distraction for his next move. Ramsay stumbled a bit but used the momentum to turn and throw himself forward, slashing wildly at him with brutal force and speed that Jon knew was used for overwhelming his opponents. Ramsay waited for no weakness, he made them himself and exploited them to the maximum. Jon moved back quickly, not worrying about raising his sword when he knew he could dodge.

Would there ever be a reason for Ramsay to betray him, Jon knew he would be a formidable opponent.

Jon blocked a direct strike, pushing the sword away and quickly slashing at the older boy again. Ramsay shirked in pain, dramatic as always. He glared up at him, baring his teeth like beats before charging forward. As they traded blows, Jon wondered if he hadn’t betrayed him already. as he parried and moved away from a wild kick, Jon thought if perhaps the betrayal hadn’t come from closer than he thought.

Ramsay knew as much as him; Ramsay was the one with easy access to new batches. Ramsay was as much in control of the city as Jon, knowing everything and doing what Jon himself couldn’t to make sure that everything happened smoothly.

But why would he even want Jon’s fortune? Ramsay did not pass as poor, and lived in the castle itself, with as many luxuries as he wished.

Jon lifted his sword, stopping Ramsay’s repetitive blows to his head. The young man was relentless, and Jon could only truly face him so easily because he _knew_ him. Better than anything else and sometimes better than himself, Jon knew Ramsay Snow.

It was for that reason alone that he knew the boy would _not_ betray him to sell some pretty rocks in the fucking street when they could make millions with jewelry and good investments. Jon may have been influenced by Ramsay, but he influenced the older boy just as much, and he knew the other knew exactly how to truly make a good profit out of a few shiny rocks.

Jon ducked from a horizontal slash, falling to one knee and hitting the back of the other’s knees with the training blunted sword. Ramsay fell, defeated and cackling like mad, as Jon knew he would do.

He watched him silently, not offering his hand for him get up. Jon walked forward and put the tip of the sword to the boy’s neck, staring down at him with freezing eyes.

“Don’t you ever use my family for your stupid little games, Ramsay,” Jon spoke quietly for him, just for him. The crowd clapped and talked animatedly around them, enjoying the show they gave.

Ramsay smiled up at him, clear eyes as empty as his soul staring up at him with sick devotion. “As you wish,” He lifted his head, pressing neck to the tip of the sword with not an ounce of fear. “My lord.”

Jon stepped back, turning his back to his… _friend_ , and waiting for his next opponent. Theon strolled forward, arrogant and wanting to prove himself again. He never learnt, but Jon would indulge him, as he needed something to do to calm him and take him out of the dark place he went when thinking about Ramsay.

He put a third of his mind to the fight, distractedly meeting Theon’s blows without ever really attacking. He thought of dragging the fight long, to slow him down and disperse the crowd.

Then, his wife — with trying sword in hand and a simple white dress covering her body — marched in the courtyard with his sister, demanding to fight for the honour of his hand in marriage.

 

•••

 

Daenerys Targaryen fought like she was a fucking dancer.

How many time had he rolled away from her by now, because she twirled that sword around so quickly and so effortlessly close to his neck, or legs? She thrust into him just as he blocked and had manoeuvred away from her, pivoting on his feet and showing his back to her for a fraction of a fucking _second_. He saw her strike at his back by the corner of his eyes, grabbing his sword backwards at an angle, letting her blade glide across his sword and directly into the ground.

His wife stumbled forward, the same as when Theon had blocked her. This time though, she rolled onto her back, not caring for the mud on her hair and dress as she pivoted around on one knee to face him. One hand still on the ground and one leg extended back, she slashed her sword at nothing, throwing away the mud staining it.

He could see the light strain on her body, tired now. She hadn’t had the best of endurance then. _Or maybe it was because we did not sleep last night_ , before the thought made him hesitate and mumble like a fool as he usually did when with her, Jon pushed himself forward. He held his training sword in both hands, held high above one shoulder. He brought on her without thinking, for a second realizing he was going at her like she was Ramsay or Ser Rodrik, with all he had, and realizing that she, maybe, could not block him in time and seriously injure herself.

The Targaryen surprised him again, bending her extended leg so she could scoot away from him and jumped back. She landed swiftly and proceeded ran to him again, thin sword low and held in one hand. Jon reverted his grip on his sword, blocking her but noticing far too late her other hand coming to his gut. The punch was not as strong as even the strongest he had ever received, but it sure felt like it. Jon reached dryly, doubling over herself for a single moment, allowing her to push her sword down the length of his again, pushing her arms back, ready to stab him while using his sword as support. Jon’s eyes widened and he used his strength to push her sword up, making it fly out of her hand and she stepped back as he directed his blunt blade at her in a diagonal cut. As he expected — and wasn’t it _exciting?_ His own wife! Managing to fight him! Him, who could only fight at his best with Ser Rodrik, Father, Ramsay and few others without worry for truly hurting them. — she moved away from him, heaving and looking at him with dark eyes he knew very well from when they were in the privacy of their room.

Smirking at her, he crouched down to get her training sword, allowing a grunt of surprise fall from his lips as he noticed the sheer weight of it. It was like a compressed longsword in weight. He moved it around, distracted for a moment. “This is awfully heavy, my la-” He moved back from her fist, aiming squarely at his face. _When did she get here?_ She kicked high on his right side, quickly throwing one of those quick punches with her other hand and hitting his left arm, making him drop her sword and scream in pain. She crouched down, caught the sword before it fell to the ground, and jumped back, swinging the — thankfully — blunt blade at his knees.

Jon stumbled back, his side, arm and knees hurting like Seven Hells. There was something seriously wrong with the way she attacked.

“If you don’t pay attention, _husband,_ ” She yelled at him, breathing heavily, her tits pressing against the muddled neckline. “You’ll end up on the ground, just like your friend.” Jeers came from the crowd watching them and he gritted his jaw, stopping for a minute and cursing himself for getting so distracted. She was right, though he had been exhilarated and jumped at her with all he had, he wasn’t taking her seriously.

He observed her arms, noticing how they were built for sheer strength, but were still strong, not pure muscle but very well defined. She dealt her blows quick and rather foolishly recklessly, he noted, remembering her daring stab at him while their words were still crossed. She tried to be sneaky and her punches were just a random hit to tire him down. _She knows anatomy,_ he deduced. Daenerys had been trained to hit quickly and to hit at a specific place, to quickly disable her opponent.

Adjusting his stance, he watched as she ran towards at him again, this time really observing her. He ducked her horizontal strike, poising his sword to cut at her legs and, as he expected, she had enough time to notice and jump back away. She jumped high and had quick reactions, her legs were very strong and he remembered the sinuous length of her lower members. She was quicker than him, and used her advantage at maximum, learning to jump around. She’d be good for their town runs, Jon thought dully.

Still, the point was that she fought with her mind, aiming to hit at specific points that’d bring her opponent down in an instant. Her sword allowed for quick moving, stabbing and cutting just fine. Not the best choice in a true battle, but he knew she had a Valyrian steel sword, and that explained a lot about her audacious fighting style.

Jon usually relied on his instincts and reflexes, just knowing without really thinking what to do. But he had never fought with someone like her, quicker than even he. Jon was strong and quick and knew how to fight better than most, but Dany was just as good on her own hard work. If she truly knew anatomy and used her memory only to quickly attack whatever weak point she saw closer, changing her stance to best reach that point no matter what distance between her and her opponent’s sword, she could truly be the stuff of legends.

 _Fuck,_ he thought, feeling the stifling discomfort of his hard member in his breeches. They both crashed their swords together, he pushing easily against her thin blade. she grunted and jumped back, running around him far too quickly. Still, despite her sudden burst of speed, he blocked her, stopping her blade from reaching his side and making her pressed forward, holding her sword in two hands. She was losing her temper, he could see. She had never used a two-handed grip until this very moment, where she glared fierily up at him.

She was really frustrated. And he could guess the reason, Jon thought while glancing down her cleavage and seeing the shape of her hard nipples through her dirty dress.

Their eyes met, wild and savage, filled with fire and desire and Jon wished they were in their room, behind their red door, more than anything else in the world. She snapped her teeth at him, moving quicker still, stepping back raising her sword to stab at his shoulders. He had to swat away her blade, moving backwards on nimble feet. He had never fought someone like this; it was like she was fearless of his own attacks, aiming only to her goal and willing to take on anything as long as she reached it. Jon ducked sideways, moving around her and hitting her back. She fell forwards and did something he had never seen.

Despite the obvious pain, she fell forward for a second and then she bent her legs and pushed herself into the air. Her whole body spun in the air and then she fell back on the ground, feet planted firmly on the ground as she twisted back on him, clearly exhausted but not giving up anytime soon.

 _What in the Seven Hells?_ He stared at her with wide eyes, something he was sure every last one of the witnesses around him copied. Daenerys’ fighting style was insane, and it tired him out just thinking about it. How did she manage so long? It was impractical and reckless and far too fancy and nonsensical and _holy shit he loved it._

“Lady Daenerys!” Lady Catelyn’s voice echoed in the silence that took over the courtyard. Jon felt his own desire deflated a little bit and he would have turned around to tell her to fuck off but Daenerys’ eyes remained on him. Her violet eyes were dark, dark as the moonless sky and a void that called to him like a siren’s song. He knew exactly what she wanted and that he could give her what she wanted — _would give her anything she asked right at that moment. —_ and needed.

He wanted to stalk across the muddled courtyard and take her to bed and remain there for days, just them, alone and in peace and hopefully fucking.

“Lady Daenerys, what is this?” Catelyn appeared beside her, moving to block his view of Dany as she fussed over her dirty appearance. “Is that a sword?” The woman asked hesitatingly. Dany remained quiet, looking at him over the woman’s shoulder. Lady Catelyn glanced over her shoulder to see him, sneering and turning back around to face the younger girl. “Come, let us take you inside.” She took out her cape, putting over Dany’s shoulders and guiding her away from the crowd. Daenerys looked back at him a moment, smouldering stare that promised many things for their night.

Jon had half a mind to follow her inside when he was tackled from behind by a tiny being, just as Lady Catelyn disappeared inside the keep. “Gods, Jon!” Arya’s muffled voice reached his ears and he had to blink a couple times to refocus on the world around them. “You two were amazing!” She scrambled to stand in front of him, grabbing his jerkin, pushing him down and shaking him wildly. “What was that thing she did before Mother arrived?” She shook him harder, making him dizzy. “Teach me, Jon!” Robb appeared behind her, arms circling her tiny waist and hoisting her up. Arya fought wildly in his arms, reaching for Jon and cursing Robb to Seven Hells and beyond.

Ramsay stopped beside him, watching the ruckus the little wolf made and whistling softly. “Milady is one helluva fighter.”

Jon stared at him with wide eyes, eyebrows high in his forehead. _That is an understatement._ Jon looked back where his wife had disappeared, wanting more to follow her to the ends of Earth and back if it meant he could have her in his arms again.

 

•••

 

A hot bath was usually welcomed after such straining days, but Jon couldn’t find comfort while being so painfully hard with desire, engulfed by the heat that wasn’t the one he craved. It was also particularly difficult to concentrate on his own predicaments beyond embarrassment and frustration when two of his personal guards chose to remain in his bathing chambers.

“I really don’t need your help, Satin, and you know it,” He grumbled to the younger boy who was massaging his head with oils Daenerys had given to Jon. Thinking of her only made it worse for him.

“Nonsense, Lord Jon,” The younger boys answered calmly, moving his nails across Jon’s scalp. Jon was definitively softening, as this lordly attentions had never been enjoyable to him. It was a custom of the South, but his guards took it gladly, accompanying him to baths as his personal servants and gossiping and joking around. Not that Jon trusted anyone else other than Dany to see him so vulnerable, but he hated having Ramsay giggling like a little girl while sitting on a little stool not two feet away from Jon’s bathtub.

“Gods, I have another one!” Ramsay exclaimed, hitting his knee and leaning forward. He stared at them with gleeful eyes full that promised profound embarrassment to Jon. For the past hour, all he did was make stupid jokes as Jon tried to hide his huge boner from them, all the way back from the courtyard to this very moment.

Jon wanted to die.

“That sure was the _hardest_ fight Jon has ever fought…” He remained silent for a moment, a huge smile on his mouth as his eyes moved from Jon and back to Satin. Satin snickered and tried to cover up with a cough. They could hear the loud coughing coming from the door leading back to the bedchamber, Siro and Anguy’s attempt at hiding their own mirth at their lord’s expense. Ramsay cackled loudly.

Closing his eyes, Jon tried to pretend he had never met Ramsay and his life was all an elaborate illusion. He never met Ramsay, never heard his bloody voice and never had to deal with his horrible jokes.

Satin’s soft voice echoed in the chamber soon after. “Milord’s resolve to win was hard as rock.” Ramsay fell off his stop and rolled on the ground, a loud guffaw that should deprive him of air and kill him coming out of his damned mouth. Jon turned sharply around and pushed Satin from _his_ stool, making him fall to the floor. The previous whore didn’t seem to mind, falling into uncontrollable giggles as he slowly got up from the ground.

Jon decided to cut Satin from his Ramsay-less dream life.

“Get out, you fuckers.” They scrambled to their feet, stumbling towards the door and looking back at him with gleeful eyes. “Go deal with that fucking smuggler, I want him gone from here and in Castle Black’s cells as quickly as possible.” He turned away from them, grabbing his soap and dragging across his chest. While satin tried to regain a serious composure and nod gravely to him, Ramsay kept giggling and didn’t even bother to look back at him.

“Whatever, whatever.” He giggled, opening the door and heading out. Satin quickly bowed to him and followed the older boy, closing the door behind him. Jon could hear faint voices on the other side of the door before the silence resumed, more peaceful now that Ramsay wasn’t there to pester him.

He waited a moment before throwing the soap at the wall with a frustrated growl.

Dany had been a wonderful distraction, and fighting with both Ramsay and she had cooled his temper a lot, but he still boiled with anger now. He had a fucking _leak._ The thought of it passing him with no notice made him want to scream and hit something.

He had thought Ramsay could be the leak, but he could see the impossibility of such. Though it was him who pointed the man out to Jon, he knew that Ramsay wouldn’t do something stupid so soon in the game, not when they were dealing with the likes of Lord Baelish and the Spider.

That was another whole level of a problem; should he allow a controllable number of spies around the Gift? Maybe he could send them to Mole’s Town or the Wall itself. They needed the numbers and would allow for a better way to manipulate the information leaving the Gift. While it was, technically, doable. Still, it was all a pretty silly idea that had a thousand and one ways to go wrong.One tiny slip and they could have the wrong things going out of their lands.

Still, Jon hadn’t that much of important information for them to leak. As of now, all he had was the potential for treasure and wealth, who most of the Realm would surely be interested in invest. The master of coin and the spider’s interest was a clear sign that maybe Jon could have the Crown interested in a loan and have them in his hands for a while. It could stop that fucker Joffrey from doing anything crazy when he took the crown.

The reports were clear that the boy was mad as Dany’s father, maybe even more dangerous, as he seemed to have clear conscience of his actions. Jon had lost count of how many witnesses he had interviewed about the Mad King’s own branch of madness, and most, if not all, said the man hadn’t been capable of thinking clearly and had lost all contact with the real world as the years passed after Duskendale. His fixation in hurting Dany when she was in King’s Landing could lead him to petty actions against the Night’s Watch, like denying or decreasing the number of people sent to take the oath.

If the spies entered Queenscrown and the Watch, things could go terribly wrong for them in the future, as Jon did not know what kind of things could trigger the boy into action. So, Jon could not have those fucking spies roaming around his and the Watch’s lands, because it could be potentially dangerous.

Still, it would be suspicious if they continued to deny entrance to certain individuals, as rare as it was for people to move all the way North. Jon would have rumours flying around of Queenscrown selectiveness in a few months and Dany’s speech would fall short, making House Targaryen’s worth and reliability decrease immensely.

It made everything a huge fucking mess and Jon was lost on how the hell he would fix all the shitty things he learned today.

The whore had said there was one other spy heading to the Dreadfort. They were no whore, but a child that worked for the Spider that Ramsay had snatched days back when Dany had told them of the spider’s network. The boy would be dealt with, and Ramsay was sure he managed to even use his skills in information gathering before his parting with Lord Bolton.

The whore had said he knew of the boy because his lord had to join forces with the Spider to secure a place in Winterfell and then, closer to Queenscrown. Jon’s grip was tight in the North, making impossible for them to find a place so easily. It would be harder once they were all the way back in Queenscrown, but Ramsay could manage. But still, why were they so interested in them? Perhaps the leak had to be connected to the crown, somehow, in the last year and a half, sending the news of Jon’s discoveries.

They had too much to do and Jon felt nothing but rage at his incompetence. He’d have to make amends and take out any kind of spy, for now. They could not have any interruptions or plottings when so many potential investors and Houses were there, it’d only make his job difficult. He’d need to interrogate and dispose of them as quickly as possible, as soon as Ramsay found them.

With a tired sigh, Jon wondered what kind of a monster he was. By the next morning, a young man would be killed and a boy would die, he had sentenced their deaths and yet it was not him who swung the sword, and he would order many other deaths. How could he? He could not deal with every man that tried to attack his House and people. He could not go out in the city and kill a man without people noticing. He could not travel to the Dreadfort without people noticing.

Jon wondered if his father knew how difficult it truly was to do what he did. Everything was so clean cut for his father. He didn’t see the enemies lurking in the shadows, too far away for him to take their head with Ice as honour demanded. Did his father know of the enemies that wished and wanted to take what he had? How could the Starks survive for so long, Jon thought, without ever seeing the true enemies playing their cards in behind the scenes, too stuck to their honour.

Was Jon even a true Stark? He did not seem like one, from his own point of view.

Tired, Jon moved out of the tub, grabbing a towel from a stool nearby. He put it over his head, trying to dry his hair as much as he could so as to not get a cold. He moved into his room without looking, knowing it to be empty. He dressed in soft clothing, ready for a full night of sleep. He missed the warmth of his wife.

He needed her peace.

Hurrying, he moved out of his chambers, stepping out in the corridor while closing his robe — he was wearing a fucking robe, how far had he gone — and nodding to Siro and Anguy as he walked towards the red door a few ways ahead from his own door. He knocked, smiling softly at her laughing voice allowing his entrance.

Entering, he was greeted with the vision of his wife laughing gleefully on the rug in front of the hearth, a small babe in her arms pulling on her silver hair and babbling incoherently. Lady Marya of House Seaworth sat in one of their armchairs, sewing peacefully with a soft smile on her lips. He closed the door behind him, moving to sit in the other armchair while watching his wife play with the baby.

“Jon,” She laughed mirthfully, getting up with the little boy in her arms and kneeling at his feet. “Look at him! Isn’t he the cutest little boy you have ever seen?” She cooed at the baby, showing his little face to him. The boy looked as any other baby had ever looked to Jon, he did not truly think him cute or adorable, but for the sake of his wife, and to keep that beautiful smile on her face, he nodded quietly.

Lady Marya chuckled, getting up from the armchair and putting her needlework on the side-table. “You said so for every son of mine.” She wiggled her fingers at the boy, who immediately reached for her with a happy shriek. “And I’m sure you say it for every other babe you meet.”

Jon’s lips twitched and he coughed, falling back into the armchair and turning his face away, hiding his mirth from the playful glare of his wife.

“Only yours, Lady Marya,” Dany continued, getting up from the ground to pass the baby to the older lady.

The woman only smirked at her, curtsying and walking out with a quiet farewell. Dany waited for her to get out before she fell atop him. His hands circled her waist as she climbed on his lap, straddling him and bitting on her lower lip as she sat on him.

He smiled at her, one hand gripping the back of her head and bringing her down, putting his mouth over her lips into a light kiss that she quickly deepened, using her tongue to caress his. They weren’t as messy as the first time, kissing deeply and unafraid, using their tongues to taste as much as they could. She moved back, bitting on his lower lip as she usually did.She let him go and moved away from him, giggling all the way to their bed as she twirled and danced around.

Jon remained sitting, watching her with soft eyes and finally feeling his body relax.

“You are an amazing fighter,” She pulled their pelt from the bed, throwing it over her shoulders as a mock cape, pulling it tight around her body. Her gaze was sly and there was a playful tilt to her voice. “I’m sure you’d have won, in time, _husband,”_ She giggled, cheeks flushed and closing her eyes as she hugged her shoulders, thin hands digging into the soft fur.

“Are you drunk?” He chuckled, getting up and walking at her with narrowed eyes. Her mouth had a foreign taste when he kissed her.

She squinted at him, a delicious blush on her cheeks as she swayed slightly on her feet. “Lady Marya said something about not drinking too much wine,” Daenerys moved her eyes up, comically pensive while one of her hands scratched at an inexistent beard on her chin. “But I think she was over-” She hiccoughed, one hand bashfully covering her mouth. “Overreacting…?”

Holding back his chuckle, Jon’s hands fell to her shoulders. “Why are you drunk, Daenerys?” One hand rose to play with her wonderful waves, soft to his touch.

“I had dinner with Lady Catelyn after she interrupted us,” She pouted, her hands dragging over his clothed stomach. “There was plenty of wine there.” It mildly worried him that Lady Catelyn had his wife visibly drunk. “But Lady Marya and Melisandre saved me.” She finally reached his neck with her hands, dragging her nails on his skin and making him shudder. “Lady Marya stayed with me here,” She rose to the tip of her toes, breathing over his mouth as her hands settled on the back of his hair, messing with it. “While I waited for _you._ ”

He hummed, hugging her close and moving his lips to her in another kiss. Jon didn’t drag the kiss, uncomfortable in dragging her for into any kind of… _activities_ , while she was clearly drunk.

“Good,” He responded, pleased.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her gaze moving over his features with acute shrewdness. One of her hands played with his ear as she tilted her head at him. “You’ll not fuck me tonight.” Despite his rapidly reddening cheeks, Jon nodded slowly, playing with the fur of their pelt pushed tight against the small of her back. Dany hummed quietly, laying her head underneath his chin and dragging her hands to his shoulders and then his chest. “That’s alright.” He laid his cheek on the top of her head, breathing the scent of her soft hair.

He swayed with her, moving with the drunken body until she was making him mock dance with her. She kept stepping on his toes, and he tripped on the pelt dragging on the floor, but they kept moving, laughing lowly and exchanging short kisses. The night was upon them, the only light in their room coming from their big hearth, throwing dancing shadows over her light skin and painting them into its fiery glow.

Dany giggled against his lips, moving them to his cheek, and snuggling her cheek against his. He pressed back against her, closing his eyes and losing himself in the peaceful moment. She almost tripped over her feet, but he grabbed the back of her thighs and hoisted her up. Dany held tight to him, hugging his neck and pressing her legs around his waist. She kissed the side of his head, biting his ear as he put her on the bed.

Dany fell heavily on the bed, throwing herself back and opening her arms and legs, occupying as much space as she could. She moved her arms over the bed, wiggling over the covers. Jon had to bit his upper lip to stop himself from laughing at her.

“What are you doing?” He asked with obvious laugher in his voice, despite his efforts for hiding it.

“Foooooooling aaaaroooound…” She dragged the two words, singsonging to a tune only she could listen to. She stopped, staying still for a few seconds before snapping up from the mattress, a blinding grin on her lips. “Jon!” His mouth twitched and his shoulders shook with the effort to keep his mirth in.

“Aye, love?” He regretted his wording as soon as it fell from his lips, cringing and waiting for her to remark something about him. Jon must have sounded so desperate. He couldn’t love her in such a short time, and she could never reciprocate his feelings. _I am your punishment_ , he thought sullenly. For his luck, she did not notice.

She grabbed his hands, swinging them around as she wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Wanna see my sword?” Her words mirrored Theon’s earlier taunt, and Jon smiled at her, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

“If my wife wishes for me to see her sword,” He pushed her off the bed, helping her on her drunken feet as their pelt fell back to the bed. He lowered his head a bit, getting close to her and looking deeply into her eyes. “Then I shall.” He whispered softly, kissing her on the tip of her nose and moving aside for her to move. Dany squealed cutely, jumping on her feet in excitement. She moved to one of her chest, a longer one ornamented with simple roses on its wooden surface.

“You’ll love it,” She whispered, unlocking the chest and throwing the lid open. Jon could see her training sword right on the top, a few clothes beneath it as well as other training or battling trinkets. A round shield, old and dented in some parts, held the faded sigil of their House. He could see a few odd pieces of armour, mostly protection for the shoulders and arms, different from anything he had ever seen. Dany paid attention to none of those, pulling a long object from some hooks on the lid of the chest. It was protected with a velvet piece of cloth, carefully done like some sort of purse. Jon felt like laughing. Of course, Dany would store her Valyrian steel sword inside a customized, rich, velvet red purse.

His wife turned around to face him, an excited glint in her eyes as she offered the sword to him. She unlaced the velvet cloth, allowing it fall apart. Jon’s heart was beating like crazy, pumping blood to his veins like he was ready for a battle. The sword Dany showed him was _definitely_ something only her ancestors could ever make.

It was some kind of rapier sword, but with the blade was larger, allowing for better cutting. It had a sharp and thin point perfect for Dany’s much used thrusting attacks. The blade glinted with the rippled patterns that identified her as Valyrian steel. The colour was light, glinting beautifully as if it had just left the forge when it was older than the Targaryen dynasty.

Jon took it from Dany with reverence, awed by its light weight and the intricate pattern of the hilt. The crossguard was a fucking _rose_. It was an inverted cup, the petals opening delicately to the blade while the stem curled like a braid around the grip, wrapping on the pommel, which held a cultured drawing of a rose.

“[It’s beautiful](https://ellipticadopts.deviantart.com/art/FloralStone-3-10-ROSE-602577629), hm?” Jon moved his awed gaze back to his wife, who looked at the sword with pensive eyes. “It was held by a merchant in Qohor. It’d been passed down in his family since the Valyrian era…” She smiled mischievously, looking up at him through her lashes. “Cousin Stannis refuses to tell me how he got it.”

“It’s nothing like any other Valyrian sword…” He caressed the blade reverently.

“And I guess you’ve seen many Valyrian swords in your lifetime?” Lord Mormont’s Longclaw and Father’s Ice passed through his mind and Jon smiled softly at Dany.

“Not many, I agree.” He directed his gaze towards the intricate hilt. “But none with such impressive craft.” He breathed out, incredulous smile on his mouth as he fingered the guard. “The hilt and guard are coloured and made of Valyrian steel too!”

Dany jumped to her feet, clapping her hands and opening her hand in a silent request for the sword. He gave it back to her and held the grip firmly in one hand. She gave four wide steps backwards, suddenly very gracious despite the blush on her cheeks. Putting one hand on the low of her back, she flourished the sword in a wide arc to her side, twirling her wrist and rising her arm so the hilt was in front of her chest and the blade pointed up, perfectly lined with the tip of her nose.

“’Tis not a rare type of sword, but the forges of Qohor have touched this sword in the past.” She lowered the sword, taking one step forward and pointing it at him. Her form was perfect despite her light drunkenness. Jon wondered what kind of training she took so she could reach such proficiency. “Lord Stannis told me the man kept insisting this sword was the first remade from Valyrian steel, that it was shown to his family by Valyrian forger centuries ago.”

“That’s why it’s blue? The rose?” Dany shrugged, staring at the seemingly delicate guard that Jon knew could withstand anything, securing her hand from any attackers. It made sense that she used such a sword, it made it possible for her to such insane attacks so close to her opponents.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She smiled and let the sword spin in her hand, letting the guard point to the floor and allowing her to change her grip and throw the sword up. Jon watched with wide eyes as it spun the air and she grabbed it back by the _fucking Valyrian steel blade which could cut through iron_.

“Dany!” He grabbed the hilt she now had pointed at him with no real thought. He pulled his arm back, taking the blade from her nimble fingers and grabbing them with his other hand. “Are you _mad_?”

She frowned at him, pulling her hand from his. “Of course not!” She hissed, flushed red with anger. “It’s just a trick. I know what I’m doing.” She looked away, pursing her lips. “If you catch the sword balancing it on the flat of the blade with your fingers there’s no problem at all…” She fisted her hands and snapped her gaze back at him. “ _I am not mad_.”

Sighing, Jon diverted his eyes away, guilty for ever daring to say such hurtful words to her. “Forgive me, Daenerys…” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I was just…I thought…” He turned away, looking down at the glinting Valyrian sword in his hand.

Dany remained silent, arms crossed beneath her chest and a pained face that made his heart hurt. _Great job, Snow._ He pursed his lips, looking down at the sword she obviously loved and was very proud of. How many hours had she trained to be capable of doing such a simple trick? How much of her creams had used to keep her hands soft? How much sweat and blood were the prices for crazy fighting style to be possible?

“What’s the name?” He asked softly.

“Hm?” She blinked at him, anger and hurt forgotten for a moment.

“Every…” His voice hitched and he gulped. “Every great sword has a name. What’s the name of yours?” She blinked at him, violet eyes falling to the sword in his hand. Her face became pensive as she stepped forward again, close enough to reach for his hand holding her weapon.

“I’d thought of a name before…” She gulped, eyes rising to bashfully meet his. “Before you.” She smiled, a tentative truce offered. He smiled back, silently accepting. “But now I was wondering if it’d be more fitting to name it Winter Rose?”

Jon’s nose scrunched up and he cringed slightly for not managing to hide his thoughts. She stared at him in shock.

“You don’t like it?”

“Sorry…” He smiled weakly and she giggled. “What was the other name you had thought?”

“Well,” she lifted one eyebrow, smiling blazingly as she intertwined her fingers with the ones of his free hand, lifting their joined hands so she could stare at them. “I had thought fitting to name it Frostbite.”

“Frostbite…” He repeated thoughtfully, staring at their hands. “…The ancient Valyrian sword of House Targaryen of the North…” Dany giggled delightfully.

“I like the sound of that!” She exclaimed, beautiful eyes glinting up at him, flashing him a wide smile that showed her teeth. Jon smiled back, small and timid and every bit as sincere.

“Me too.”

 

•••

 

For three days Jon was successful in avoiding his father while he prepared for their leaving. By the time his father had reached him, Anguy had made a complete investigation — with Ramsay’s help — over the smuggler’s history in Queenscrown and how the fucking retarded man managed to get out of Jon’s city.

The man had handicapped himself in the mines after finding some of their recent batch, _unguarded_ and _unregistered_ in their daily reports. The man was Ironborn, uncommon in the far North but just as greedy. It fit right to Stannis’ warning and Jon itched to return and make a complete surveillance over their numbers. The man needed to go with them to face trial for his attempt against the Gift’s fortune. Jon would have to properly inform Dany about it, and consult with the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. They still had to make a true account of how much the man had stolen from them in gold dragons, but Jon figured it was a considerable amount, as the Ironborn had chosen the more profitable crystals and few metals.

Jon figured the man would lose a hand — _or both_ , he thought, sneering at nothing — for his stealing, but Lord Commander Mormont should have to think of a proper way to punish him for stealing from what was, technically, the Watch’s coffers in a more severe way. They couldn’t have their miners stealing their fortune because there wouldn’t be a proper punishment barring them from acting.

One hand was a nice price for a life in luxury, Jon knew those scumbags would think like that.

Ser Denys Mallister, lord commander at the Shadow Tower, and Eastwatch-by-the-sea’s own lord commander Cotter Pyke’s opinions should be counted too, Jon thought distractedly while watching some servants load shares of food for House Targaryen and guests’ two weeks long trip to Queenscrown. They would be a large group with plenty of civilians, he thought, using the term the old magister used when describing non-fighting people, and as such would travel at a much slower pace than usual, despite the somewhat short distance. They should take fewer fruits, they would spoil.

Taking a ripe red apple from a passing servant’s basket, he turned away from the kitchens, heading back to the main courtyard where carts were being loaded. The whole of Winterfell was abuzz with energy, restless in the wake of Jon’s definite parting from the castle.

Robb passed by him, nodding and heading to the armoury. Jon decided to not bother and remained on his path to the courtyard. He’d have plenty of time to spend with the Heir of Winterfell. His brother would head out with them, remaining in Queenscrown for a few weeks, perhaps even months.

Eddard Stark would remain behind with his wife and younger children.

Jon bit angrily into his treat, eyes darkening in displeasure and slight betrayal.

What was his father thinking? _He_ had installed Jon as lord of the Gift through a deal with the Night’s Watch. Ned Stark should’ve been there to oversee his plans coming to fruition just like Lord Stannis was. Lord Stannis would be their _regent_ , for fuck’s sake. Jon was a long way from completing his six and tenth nameday, and even then, Lord Stannis offered to remain in the godforsaken cold hell that was the North because he wanted to watch over his ward and cousin.

Yet, Jon guessed that a bastard son wasn’t enough to move his father into politics. He wasn’t enough for his father to support. Ned had given Jon an opportunity in the North, had shown him the ways of the North, had allowed Jon to join him in his yearly tours around the North, but he wouldn’t go to his…

What was Jon even going to do in Queenscrown? What was he even taking over? Wa sit his coronation? His culmination of the Pact of Ice and Fire? What was _it?_ Regardless, he would be going to Queenscrown, and his father thought it wasn’t something he would waste his time on.

Could Jon blame him?

He passed beneath the bridge overseeing the courtyard, uncaring for activity around him and seemingly not noticing the various pairs of eyes on him, watching and judging him for the young bastard thrown in the game that he was.

Jon was used to it though; he knew how to look like he didn’t care and like he didn’t notice. Blending with background and giving an appearance of aloofness and coolness that distanced him from them.

It made his life easier, if not lonelier.

“Jon!” The young lord stopped, turning to face his father as the other man approached. His father’s face was weary, brows furrowed deeply while his whole stance screamed in unleashed tension. He had finally caught up to Jon’s dealings in Wintertown.

He kept his features carefully schooled, fully turning around to face the man as he left the armoury. Movement on the bridge above them caught his attention and he quickly placed up, seeing Dany, Arya, Sansa and that tall girl from the Stormlands, Lady Brienne of Tarth, looking down at him. Dany wore that beautiful white coat she wore when she first arrived. Her hair was simply done, two simple braids keeping her hair from her face in the Northern way, mimicked by both his sisters. They flanked her sides while Lady Brienne hovered behind them, Dany’s worried eyes moving from his father’s tense figure to him.

He made sure to quickly avert his eyes so his father would not notice.

“Jon,” Ned spoke gravely, finally stopping in front of him. His taller form loomed over him like a mountain, dark and freezing. Something in his chest ached, fluttering boundlessly as he faced the man that he admired more than anyone else in his life. The same man that both gave him freedom and shackled him to his own mind and doubts, his father, who loved him but couldn’t, wouldn’t give him his place as a Stark.

Numbly, Jon noticed he sounded awfully bitter.

“Jory spoke with me of what happened,” He pursed his lips and shook his head slightly. “What made you do that to that man?”

His mouth opened to respond him, but no sound came out of it. He stood there, his boots in the muddled ground while his father judged him from above like one of their Old Gods, watching and judging and waiting. Unreachable and honourable, far too much to ever truly understand the fire that drove Jon forward. How could he? How could someone like Ned Stark ever understand the sheer amount of things that seemed to always pester Jon, always haunting and taunting and tainting whatever his father taught him? He could not, and with that in mind, Jon did not answer. He snapped his mouth shut and glared stubbornly at his father.

The older man kept his judging eyes — darker than Jon’s own orbs, despite how everyone kept telling he was the copy of his father; but Jon had seen his own reflection in the mirrors of his home, clearer than anything available in the North and Westeros, and he could see where his appearance diverged from his father’s — upon him, unmoving and unimpressionable. Ned sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before turning away. “Come!” He called, not waiting to see if Jon obeyed as he stalked towards where Jon knew was the crypts.

Jon remained where he was, staring at his father’s retreating back with wild wide eyes before he turned to face his wife, looking at him with worried eyes. Violet eyes looked at him and made him want nothing more than to climb the bridge and fall into her arms, warm and secure and away from whatever lecture his father would give him. Despite the consequences of such, the thought of having Catelyn Stark proved right one more time about his devious bastard blood made him boil.

Still, even with his wife’s safety there, tempting him to fall back into her arms and disobey his father, Jon turned away and followed the Stark patriarch into the Winterfell crypts, where he did not belong.

Walking into it was eerily like his dreams — the ones where his ancestors chanted at him, about how he didn’t belong there, how he was no wolf and no true Stark — and it made him paranoid. His father had not waited for him, and the entrance was a gaping dark hole sucking him in with no regards to his fears. Stepping into the crypts was terrifying, more so than any other time he had ever done it. A ominous darkness covered his form, the faint light coming from a few torches in the walls making dancing shadows reach their void and phantom fingers to him.

It didn’t take long for him to finally see his father’s form, standing in front of the most recent statue of the past Starks. Jon stopped beside his father and look up, staring at the stone face of Lyanna Stark.

“You’re a lot like her, sometimes.” His father’s quiet voice took him away from his wandering thoughts.

“Aunt Lyanna?” Jon murmured, blinking at his father and turning back to the statue with confused eyes. “They say I look more like you, that Arya is much more like her.” The faint clacking of the flames accompanied his father’s faint laugh as he stepped forward, one hand gently caressing the base of the statue.

“They who?”

Jon scowled, observing his father’s gentle actions as he stood back. “Your people. Your allies. Your bannermen.”

“Did Howland Reed tell you that?” _When you decided to remain there, all these years ago_ , went unsaid.

A flash of green scenery, small people roaming around him, the smell of the swamp and the light sway of Greywater Watch floating in the great swamps of the Neck passed through his mind. A home away from home, where he was as welcome as the Heir of the North himself, treated as an honoured guest and sat, every day and night, by the Lord’s right. A home away from home that welcomed him like nowhere else ever did. Three blessed moons he had spent there, two with Arya and the other by his lonesome, with only Ramsay there for familiar company.

He missed it fiercely.

“He told me I am a lot like you.”

“He told you that you are a lot like _your father._ ”

Jon frowned, confused, and chose to not answer back, for he did not know what his father meant.

Ned sighed, turning his back to Jon again as he stared at the remembrance of Lyanna Stark mournfully. “He, Howland, is going with you.” His words were quiet, rogue. He sounded tired.

“Unlike you.” It escaped Jon’s lips before he could stop himself, and Jon bit his tongue with enough force to draw blood, chiding himself and cursing silently at his own impulsiveness. “Forgive me.”

“No,” Ned shook his head, finally turning back to Jon. “You are right.” He did not elaborate, only staring sullenly at him, sad and…

“Why?” Jon bit out. “Am I that much of a disappointment?” He clicked his tongue, snapping his gaze away from his father. He stared at the darkness leading further into the crypts. “I’m a bastard, I know that.” He licked his mouth, still tasting faintly like the apples he had snacked on. The core was still in his hand, held tightly by his shaking fist. “But I thought…I thought you…”

“I love you, Jon.” It felt like a kink in the gut, and he gasped softly, a lump in his throat stopping him from breathing properly. His eyes stung, tears gathered and threatened to spill as his father’s words reached him. “You are my son.” Ned Stark stepped forward, big hand rising to grasp his shoulder as the other cupped Jon’s chin. Jon faced him again, biting his lips and scowling awfully to keep himself from crying. Ned chuckled, his eyes oddly shining and only making all the more difficult for Jon to not throw himself in his father’s arms. “You may not have my name, but we share blood. I raised you as well as I could, and I am proud of what you accomplished,” Jon’s hands grasped tightly to one of his arms.

“I’m sorry, father.” He gasped out, suddenly desperate to spill out everything that had been stuck in his throat for so long. “I am no Robb, I have not your honour.” He gritted his jaw, daring to meet his father’s eyes. “I am violent, and I plot like a fucking Southerner most of the times,” His father smirked, but now that Jon began, he could not find it in himself to stop. “I want, and I desire, and I cannot be a true Northerner, I know. I am a bloody bastard just like Lady Stark always warned you about. But it’s just that…Father, I have…I _am…_ ”

“Calm yourself, Jon,” His hands grasped his cheeks, stopping him and making him look at Ned. “Breathe, Jon.” He did, he took big gulps of air and tried his best to think rationally, properly. He _couldn’t_ lose himself in that way. He couldn’t lose control. “You are not a devious bastard, you know that is bullshit.” Jon gulped, he truly did not. “It is true, you are _not_ me. You are not what I expected, you don’t do things like I would,” Jon sobbed dryly, bitting harder on his lower lip to keep himself from crying. His father’s grip tightened and he crouched slightly so they could be on eye-level. “But maybe that’s good for you, Jon.”

Jon shook his head. “What I did to that man, you would never do that.” He glared at his father. “You would not.”

Ned shook his head slowly, wise eyes watching him. “No…” He sighed, hands grasping Jon’s shoulders and pulling him into a tight embrace. “I would not. I still think you are wrong and you should’ve never done that.” Jon remained silent, face burrowed into the fur on his father’s cape. If only he knew of all the things he had done to so many other people… “But I know you, Jon, all of you, much better than you think.” He tightened his hold. “You youths all think we don’t see you, that we don’t understand you, that we are perfect the way we are and we don’t make mistakes but you are wrong.” He drew back, looking down at him with dark Stark eyes. “Like I know you would do that to that man, again and again, and worse still.”

Jon took a long while to answer, a denial rising in his throat but dying quickly when he finally _looked_ at his father. “I would.” He whispered, slowly but as firm as diamonds. “I will.”

His father’s eyes looked sad and regretful then. “See,” He smiled softly, bitterly. “You don’t need this old man. The Gift is better in your hands, I see that.” His eyes glazed over, turned to the past as they were wont to do. “I knew it from the moment I took you there and you demanded to see the books and documents and accountings and dealings, at only ten namedays,” He brought him close again. “But you already knew what to do.”

Jon sniffled and lifted his chin like Dany always did when she was proud of something she did.

“You will do good, Jon.” He brushed Jon’s hair, and Jon held himself back from saying he wasn’t a child anymore. “We may not always agree, but I know you were born for this.” He smirked mischievously at Jon, a rare sight that brought a grin to Jon’s own lips. “You thought you would get some kind of lecture, didn’t you?”

Jon’s mind went back to his various fights with his father, about how he acted and what he did. How he dealt with others to guarantee progress for Queenscrown or to make sure to cut down anyone that would come in his way. He thought back to the various lectures where he was told to act more honourably, about how wrong he was and how shouldn’t do that or this.

In the end, he had always been coerced to do what he needed or do what he knew would work best, despite what his father believed and taught.

“Aye.” He nodded, accepting his father’s words and truce. It made him happy that he would not part with him in bad waters. Ned grinned slightly, bringing him to a tight embrace, crouching over him like he always did when Jon was a small lad; a blanket of comfort and fatherly love.

“It’s your blood,” Ned whispered against his head. “This wilderness.”

“Wolf’s Blood?” His father did not answer, only embracing him tighter. They stood there for a few moments before Ned stepped back, looking longingly at Lyanna’s statue one last time before he guided Jon out of there.

Stepping out of the crypts was like breathing again, and something in Jon had finally settled, finally cleared. The sky was darkening, the night was rising and the air was cold, yet Jon felt right. Something had finally been calmed in him, a mysterious beast inside him that knew no master had finally stopped its raging thoughts, allowing Jon to finally think clearly. Smiling, Jon turned his face to meets his father’s soft smile and tired features, thanking him silently for his support.

When he looked forward once again, it was to meet Lady Stark’s haunting form. She was shaking, paralyzed on her feet as her eyes moved from Jon, to Ned and to the crypts. Her skin was as white as the snow in the darkest of nights, eyes wide and bluer than Jon had ever seen. He could see her hands shaking wildly by her sides, and she was breathing heavily. Lady Catelyn was in a panic.

Father’s heavy grip n his shoulder made Jon turn his eyes up to Ned’s grave face. “Go to your wife. Go rest.” Jon remained there, frozen at the dark tone of his father’s voice. “Jon,” He focused on his father again. “Go.”

He did.

 

•••

 

Dawn came as it always did, on the morning of their leaving.

Jon had been awake for about an hour, playing with Dany’s long silver locks while he stared out at the narrow window, watching silently as the dark night sky cleared into a multitude of colours.

Daenerys had her back to the window, burrowed into their sheets, curled up like a baby. The window at her back looked like a vibrant moving painting, colour rising with the sun, the black of the night giving passage to blue and orange and yellow and gold. The sunlight took its sweet time to reach its fiery tendrils into their room, moving painfully slowly inside their room. tiny flecks of dust floated through the light, disappearing into their irrelevance, uncaring and unhurried.

They had let the window open, leaving the room to an almost freezing tempter if not for the hearth, clacking loudly the whole night, and the warmth of their own bodies cuddled close for comfort and sentiment. When Jon breathed out, a lazy mist drifted out of his mouth, playing with sunlight and rising slowly as he watched the golden tendrils of the sun reach his wife’s ethereal face.

Her eyelashes fluttered over her cheekbones, thick and long, framing her violet orbs like they were portraits. Her beautiful eyes were glazed over when she finally awoke, her thick brows scrunching lightly as she blinked the sleep away. Her lips, full and pink and perfect, opened in a cute yawn, as she stretched her whole body, moving to lay on her back, arms thrown lazily back as she turned her eyes to the window.

They remained in peaceful silence; she, watching the breaking of dawn as he watched her. Light travelled through the sheer shift she used, loose and letting the milky skin of her shoulders and collarbone for him to stare and long for.

If he was an artist, if he only knew how to draw life on canvas, or on a mural, he would have immortalized her in this way. Free, relaxed and hopeful for what the day would bring to them. The rise in the horizon, smoke started to come out of the chimneys from the direction where he knew was the castle, smearing the horizon and making it distort with heat. The castle was awake and, soon, they would part.

Jon would leave Winterfell.

“The sun is rising,” He pointed out, softly and never moving his eyes away from her, afraid that if he did, he would disturb the serene image she gave.

Soft eyes turned to him, watchful and knowing. She directed one of her hands to his face, caressing him on his forehead, across his cheek and down his neck. She dragged her palm to the hollow above his collarbone, fingernails scratching lightly on his skin as she followed his left clavicle. Finally, she dragged her hand to his chest, stopping where his heart was and closing her eyes as if she could listen to his heartbeat; as if it was a song she adored.

“And we with it,” She murmured back, gentle in a way that made Jon wonder if it that could be love.

He caught her hand, taking it away from his chest and kissing each one of her knuckles, feeling her soft skin — soft because of the many balms she used, for she enjoyed them — and the odd callouses across her palm against his own.

“And we with it.” He concurred, dragging himself on the mattress so he could lay his head on her lap. Her hands moved to his hair, messy and tangled from sleep, brushing it delicately as they watched the dawn.

And when the sun wasn’t hidden by the castles walls or the horizon, they left their bed. None of them spoke, Daenerys somehow understand and knowing of his pensive state and his need for space. Jon walked as if he was underwater, everything was blurred and quiet and diluted, Daenerys becoming the only focus, the only anchor for him to hold on. He kissed her farewell when her handmaids arrived, all of them quiet. The Red Woman remained by the door, watching him quietly as she held it open for him to pass.

He passed by her with only a greeting nod. Jon pulled his thick robe closer to his skin, stopping in the middle of the corridor to stare numbly at the dark stonewalls, hollow and lost as the red door closed behind him.

Choosing to not look back, he walked towards his own bedchamber in grave silence. He entered it, dressed and watched numbly as servants entered his sanctuary, tiding it for his leave. He would only pack his clothes and personal belongings after eating. He moved through the castle slowly, caressing each wall with deep care. Everything seemed warm and distant, a contrast of sensations inside him as he passed each rock that made up the halls of the place where he grew up.

The main hall was empty when he entered it, with only Lord Stark and Uncle Benjen sitting at the main table, a chair placed between them. They were not eating and looked at him expectantly.

Jon was received with soft smiles that made him want to cry, but he sucked up and walked up the dais, sitting between them while giving his greetings. They ate slowly, savouring the food and talking idly as they watched the Hall fill up. Robb joined them, Arya and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon — who hated waking up so early — all joined them, smiling wobbly and greeting him with wide smiles. Neither Theon, Lady Stark or his Lady Wife appeared.

It came to a point where it was too much, and Jon feared he would cry like a baby at any point. So, with great reluctance, he said he needed to finish packing his things and stood up, moving to kiss each of sisters’ heads, messing the hair of his littlest brothers and bowing deeply to his father. He and Robb only exchanged a long look, but his sibling nodded to him, telling him to go without saying a word.

Jon turned away and left before he broke down or something.

He passed by Lady Catelyn on his way to his room, and she glared at him for a moment, making him stop a few feet before her. He thought of saying a lot of things, he thought of accusing her of being petty and unfair and horrible to him. He could even see the way she wanted to say something, how the words were stuck in her throat and ready to lash out at him like a whip.

In the end, all she did was close her eyes for a moment, as if in pain, before meeting his eyes for the first time on her own account, uttering a soft parting filled with something he couldn’t quite describe.

“Farewell, _Lord Targaryen_.” And she _curtsied_ , properly, the way she taught Sansa and Arya to do. She held her curtsy for a few seconds before snapping up, looking and rushing away from him, almost running. He stared at her retreating back, thinking of many things and contemplating a hundred insults and accusations. He decided to bow to her retreating form with all the dignity she thought he didn’t have, as the lord he had become. She did not see and would never know, but it was something he needed to do, needed to prove to himself. He remained in that position for a few seconds, staring down at his polished boots of better quality than his child-self had ever had. Better quality than Robb’s, because Jon bought them with his own money, with his investments; with the fruits taken from his hard work. A luxury the people of the North didn’t much care for, but he _wanted_.

Because of that woman, he had become who he was. She had moulded him just as his father helped shape him. Though she had never loved him, she had taught him just as much of the ways of the South and how a lord was expected to act. She had never enjoyed, never wanted, but she taught him and Robb, even if she tried to keep as much distance from Jon as possible, pushing his own teachings aside and giving them to others to complete. Still, Jon had managed on his own, as he always did, and she helped him and deserved at least to be acknowledged for it, even if only once in his life.

_This is the last time I shall ever bow to you, Catelyn Stark._

Familiar steps behind him warned of the oncoming presence of his servants. Four people, all of them walking lightly and with barely a sound.

“My lord,” Ramsay’s voice called for him. Jon straightened his back, turning to them with a cold mask as he nodded for him to continue. Ramsay stared hard at him, eyes moving quickly at the retreating figure of the Lady Stark before moving back to Jon.

Jon stared at him, unflinching and offering no excuses for his actions. Ramsay smirked, proud and deadly as he nodded in acquiescence. He moved, one arm extending in an invitation as the others snapped at attention, moving away and forming a corridor for him to pass.

“Shall we?” Jon nodded sharply, brusquely moving forward, a hard light in his eyes as his hands fisted at his sides.

That woman was trouble, he thought, somewhat amused and puzzled. It definitely wasn’t the last they’d confront each other. He only hoped they never met on opposite sides.

They moved efficiently, reporting to him of the various parties who’d be following them North. Satin told him of Dany’s doings and meetings in the morning while she left her handmaids to sort her things. Anguy told him, quietly, of the smuggler and his transportation, which had happened two days. He had been taken quickly with a small guard of Stannis’ best men and two of Jon’s own few men-at-arms. Ramsay reported about the few people coming from them to actually move permanently into Queenscrown, some of the sailors and companions from the East who had desired to stay longer in Winterfell and about the little whore in town, which had been felt with. Siro explained quickly of Jon’s own belongings, most of it from his gifts, extravagant and small alike, and their safe transportation.

Arriving at his bedchamber, Siro opened the door and he entered, only Satin following him as the others had their own duties to take care of. It took long hours for them to carefully examine and fold each piece of clothing, trinkets and whatever weapons and valuables he had lying around his room. The pelts he kept from his huntings, the carvings he had done in his spare time, his textbooks and scrolls and writing utensils. The documents and his plans and everything that had ever been his, all put neatly into chests as they moved around the room, cataloguing everything and taking note of anything missing or needed.

A knock on the door distracted them, and Satin gazed at him, looking for instructions on how to proceed. Jon bit his lower lip, narrowing his gaze on the door as he called out for who it was.

“It’s Arya, you stupid! Ouch!” His little sister screamed, bold as ever. Jon smirked, meeting his guard’s eyes roll with an amused of his own. “And Robb! Why did you hit me, you stupid? Ouch!” Her voice was muffled by the door as she directed her attention to their brother.

“Because you shouldn’t call Jon stupid. You shouldn’t call people stupid, period.” Jon huffed out a laugh as Robb’s voice reached his ears, muffled by the door but still into hearing range. Shaking his head, he nodded to Satin, who immediately moved to the door, opening and stepping out of the way for the two Starks to pass.

Satin bowed to them, winking to Arya before stepping out and closing the door behind him. Jon knew he would stand guard at his door, and worried not any stray spies listening to his private moments. He put one of his newer overcoats inside a chest, the last piece in it before turning to his family, opening his arms to welcome Arya’s tight embrace.

“’Tis a nice surprise, I won’t lie,” He spoke quietly, smiling softly at the mop of wild dark hair that barely reached past his stomach. “But what brought you two here?” Arya stepped back, grinning wildly and jumping back towards where Robb stood, arms holding something behind his back. _Ah_ , Jon thought faintly. Robb had gone to Mitten and asked for a sword made. Jon had thought it had been for Robb, excited on going out and demanding for a newer and better sword for his stay in Queenscrown.

He could see that Ramsay was wrong, Jon thought. _And so was I._

Robb narrowed his eyes at Jon, shaking his head in fond resignation when seeing him smirk slightly. He moved his hands from behind his back and threw the bastard sword at him. Jon caught it with a grin, directing his eyes to the cross guard — dark with red, vibrant, leather wrapped around the handle — and down scabbard. He moved it, tested its weight as he drawn the sword, seeing the fine Northern iron and work glinting at him.

“You already knew it!” Arya exclaimed, groaning in frustration. A pout formed on her mouth as crossed her arms as she grumbled petulantly. “Honestly, it’s impossible hiding things from you!”

Jon and Robb chuckled at her. Jon eyed his brother, who shook his head at him.

“You can’t keep yourself out of anyone’s business these days, Jon,” He smirked, raising one brow. “I’d mistake you for a gossiping Southern old lady.”

Grinning, Jon let go of the guard, letting it fall back into the scabbard as he walked forward. He offered his arm to Robb, who grasped firmly to his forearm, Jon doing the same as they shook arms.

“I thought it was for yourself, Stark,” He smirked. “Your surprise remains a surprise.” Robb snickered slightly as Arya threw herself between them, hugging their waists as she celebrated fooling both Jon and Ramsay. Jon looked down at her with soft eyes, moving back to change the sword in his belt for Robb’s gift. “Should I be offended?” He asked, pointing at the bastard sword with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” Robb narrowed his eyes, a mocking smirk on his lips as he shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve always been kind of sensitive, I’d not be surprised if you ran to your pretty wife screaming about how your brother offended you, you know?” And, for some sick reason, the whole thing only made Jon laugh. No bitterness rose in his chest, no restraining thoughts of doubt. Only amusement and joy was found in his heart, gratefulness and love for his brother. “At least she could defend your honour.”

“Fuck off, Robb.” Robb’s eyes widened comically, staring down at Arya with a pointed look.

“Jon!” He pointed at Arya. “There’s a lady here!”

“Fuck off, Robb.” Both he and Arya repeated dully. They all stared at each other in surprise for a moment, falling into laugh soon after. Jon threw his old, dull sword into one of the chests that were still opened, firmly securing his newest and dearest gift close.

“I chose the design and Sansa, Bran and Arya paid for it, as I currently can’t waste my whole purse.” He smirked knowingly. Jon shook his head fondly, knowing his brother would have lots to buy in Queenscrown as gifts for their siblings. Not that Jon wouldn’t shower them in with presents, he would, but Robb loved indulging them, even if he complained so much.

Jon turned to Arya, bowing to her. “Thank you, my lady.” Her lips twitched, ready to tell _him_ to fuck off. She surprised him, however, curtsying with a deep frown of concentration. It made Jon and Robb exchanged yet another look, laughter contained to not humiliate little Arya’s meaningful attempt at being ladylike.

“It was my pleasure,” She spoke slowly, saying her words slowly and carefully. A lilt in her voice made him remember of Dany, and it made him smile as he recognized her work at teaching his wildest sister. Arya looked up at him through her lashes, grinning far too widely and showing too many teeth to be ladylike. “My lord.”

He grinned right back at her.

A knock on the door caught their attention. “Lord Jon,” Satin spoke, muffled by the door. “It is time.”

Arya deflated, sniffing lightly. Jon approached her, petting her shoulders in comfort. “Go, Arya.” He spoke softly to her. “I think you still want to talk with Dany, right?” She nodded, dragging the sleeve of her dress across her nose and eyes, smearing it with snot and tears.

She tackled him, hugging him so tight it almost hurt. “I love you.” She turned to Robb and punched him in the gut, making him double over as she hugged him just as tightly. “Come back soon and bring presents.” And then she ran off, wild and quick on her feet.

Robb straightened, massaging where she had punched as the servants entered to take Jon’s baggage. Jon crossed his arms, tilting his head as he observed his brother.

“Ready to see my castle, Stark?”

Robb put his hands on his hips, smiling softly at Jon.

“Are _you_ ready to leave home for good, Targaryen?”

Breathless, Jon looked around his emptying room, at the servants wearing Baratheon, Stark and Targaryen colours entering and leaving. His sword hand fell to the new weight at his waist, gripping tightly to the black pommel, one finger dragging over the red three-headed dragon carving on the very top, as he met his brother’s Tully blue eyes with his own Stark grey ones.

“Aye.”

_I am Jon Snow, Lord of House Targaryen, Lord of Queenscrown and Lord of the Gift._

“Let’s go.”

It was time to leave Winterfell behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom. We finally Winterfell! Next chapter is our first POV out of Winterfell, can you guess who it is?
> 
> I'm actually very nervous about Jon, but hear me out okay? This boy has had a complicated childhood. Ramsay's appearance into his life and Jon's slow acceptance of him was crucial to who he became by this point, changing him from what we are used to. But, in true Jon Snow fashion, he broods about it and is very depressed and in denial of much who he is. Jon had kind of a hands approach to becoming a lord. Yes, Ned helped him and gave him lessons but he wasn't exactly present, as wasn't Catelyn. Catelyn was not present but did teach him things, and she (as we see in her POV) doesn't consider what she has done to him much, and even dismisses it quickly. Jon remembers it all very clearly though and applies this knowledge to this day. The theme of the next Arc will be hm moving and learning beyond relying on only himself and stopping being an arrogant and hot-tempered asshole. You know the lessons Mormont taught him? He hasn't learned to follow yet, kinda, and needs some elder guidance ASAP. I wonder who his guide shall be...
> 
> As for the fighting styles shown in the chapter, I wanted to highlight each of the fights to fit the characters. Dany is dramatic and quick and knows exactly where to hit; Jon thinks things through and just follows his instincts while brooding over each aspect of the fight; Ramsay is crazy and wants to torture and make people cry. Do you think I portrayed things correctly? I wanted to showcase their amazing fight styles while these three fought with other characters on their same level. While Jon is prodigy swordsman, Dany worked damned hard and developed something all of her own and Ramsay just wants to kill people, as usual. Tell me your thoughts.
> 
> I also think that I may have evolved in my smut writing skills. You tell me!
> 
> Dany's sword was chosen ages ago and those fight me on my pretty choice: please don't, let me be happy and give you fan service. But seriously, I had to make a lot of research on weaponry to get it right. Weapons are important stuff, and it was a challenge to find the perfect sword to fit her. Yes, Jon's final scene with Robb and Arya was supposed to mirror Jon and Arya's farewell, BEAR WITH ME I LIKE DOING PARALLELS! It's good for the feels. His sword is oppositive to Dany's and is not Valyrian steel but, not everyone can be happy.
> 
> Also, be free to make up the craziest story possible for how the Stannis and Davos got Dany's sword for her. Good luck in your endeavours.
> 
> As to Jon's political and economic plans, I'd prefer to answer your questions directly as to better approach your doubts and critics. Regarding Jon's random mention of House Dayne: the dude thinks (hopes) his mother is Ashara Dayne and is making excuses for having them near him when it doesn't even make sense lol
> 
> Yes, I can have my medieval parkour thank you very much.
> 
> There's one OC but no worries, I have plans that shall come to fruition soon enough for him >:)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, leave a review or two or three, as many as you like, I read and remember every single one of them lol
> 
> sorry for typos, I actually tried to edit this correctly and not in the middle of the night. See you soon!


	9. Myranda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little spy travels directly into the hound's jaw. Ravens fly and messages are sent while the game of lies takes another victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very violent. It displays graphics murder. And graphic violence, child violence and the delusions of a madwoman.
> 
> What is this sorcery? A 7k chapter? What can I say, I go for scenes, and if they are short, what can I do?
> 
> Also, still haven't answered your comments, but honestly, I'm trying to compensate for the long wait and get this story out of its first Arc. I'm planning to give more chapters more quickly and with Uni I have to choose my time. So I choose giving chapters yay! (Yes, I don't know how to manage my time properly, sue me.)
> 
> Again, timeline not perfectly linear.

In the Bolton household, those who had blood on their hands thrived only when they took pride in it. It was the reason for Myranda, as a woman and a lowly kennel master’s daughter, once held as much prestige as someone like her could.

Myranda Bones was the best hunter in their shitty household, the best archer trained by the best man that has ever passed through the old halls of Dreadfort. She lived the best way possible when she was nothing but a mere servant. There was once a time where she hunted with her father alongside Lord Bolton himself, took care of his personal and favourite hounds, but now? She was nothing but a servant woman who had no place anywhere of importance, cleaning the floor and cooking shitty food like she was some fucking peasant wife.

She hurried through the corridor, steps echoing as she hurriedly moved through the Dreadfort, entering the servant’s courtyard and pulling a hood over her face. In the early morning, just as people started their duties, it was easier for her to go out, a basket in her hands as she joined all the other women heading to the fields to collect greens.

Years ago she’d never be caught dead doing such stupid and lowly thing. No, she’d been moving out to catch some game, put it on the table of her liege lord and do something useful other than getting some grass or some plants. No, no, no, she’d been in breeches, with throwing knives strapped on her body and a good bow in hand and as many arrows as she could carry, running through the woods and doing something useful.

The only thing that remained from when _he_ was there, by her side, — where he fucking belonged — was their girls. Snarling and always hungry for blood and a good hunt, the hounds seemed to be the only good thing that everyone agreed — even her fucker of a father — that she was best at dealing with. And though she loved them and would prefer to spend the day with them in the kennels, knowing her failure of a father would not treat them as well as they deserved, she _needed_ to go away from the castle. Just for a bit, just before their lord returned and she could not escape any of her hated new — not so new now…it’s been _years_ since she had tasted true blood — duties. She needed to drown in what remained of them, of him.

It wasn’t difficult to move away from the group of women, and she did it with disgust for their weak senses and frail bodies, so easy to destroy, so easy to deceive.

If she hurried and ran all the way there, she'd get to the mill and the sun would barely move, giving her enough time to relive the memories she so loved. And she did just that just that, moving out of the main path with confidence, knowing that it did nothing to deter her. She knew these lands with the back of her hand, eyes closed and arms tied back, she knew she would not get lost. Running into the woods, the early morning light came from the tall trees and descended upon the muddy ground, the scent of the Weeping Water river was strong as was the cold mist low on the ground.

The birds were chirping and the greenery was vibrant. Tall trees soon gave way to an open path, dirty and unused. Her heart hammered inside her chest and her legs hurt with the exercise, unaccustomed to such straining work after so long of working in the kitchens again like a good girl. On the back of her mind, she knew to be disgusted with herself for letting her body and skills slip away so easily, but she knew there was no way of avoiding the tasks given to her long ago; Lord Bolton was no indulgent man and would allow for no one to slack on their duties. Everyone must know their places in the Dreadfort.

If you moved one toe out of the way then…well. That wasn’t something they spoke about much, but those who dared had certainly disappeared.

The path turned into a slope, accompanying the river bed that opened to a smaller one to the side, leading to a decrepit water mill falling apart. The mill itself was almost completely taken by the water, holding on by some kind of miracle. Heart bursting with excitement, Myranda let the basket in her arm fall on the path amongst a set of bushes, lifting her damned skirts and hastening her steps.

She burst into the place, hoping against hope that somehow he would be there, maybe defiling some poor prey’s body with his wicked dagger, maybe punishing the man who raised him, Reek, maybe taking care of some stray pup he had found in the woods. Maybe he would be making his infamous arrows, nimble fingers going through the wood with ease. He would get mad for her bursting into the room so suddenly, they would fight, he would throw her against the wall, she would demand him to fuck her hard and make her bleed everywhere and he would laugh at her face, calling her a pretty summer girl that he wanted away from him. She would spend the day shadowing him until he had enough of her and sent her away.

No such thing happened.

The little shack attached to the mill was empty, dark and putrid, as it had been for the last years. Cold and lifeless, no flesh blood splattered on the floor or wood chips and fresh arrows randomly thrown around the room. Everything had mould, the windows stained and wildlife growing inside what had been his mother’s late husband’s mill. Everything was trashed as he had let it, enraged at being given away as if some mere meat, not a bastard of Lord Bolton.

Ramsay Bolton did not wait for her in here. No, he was down there, west-south of her and miles away, in the lap of luxury of Winterfell, a slave to another bastard that must not have been half of his greatness. A personal guard that lived only to serve, using his brilliant mind to follow some brat’s orders.

Sagging against the door frame, Myranda fell against it, letting her head fall back and bang against the rotten wood. The pain was sharp against her head and she banged it, again and again, to keep the tears away. Myranda stomped her foot down and then kept doing it, grasping her head between her hands as a frustrated scream tore from her throat.

She wanted to gut that little bastard. She wanted to tear his limbs away, one by one, keeping him alive to savour the pain. He would deserve it, he deserved every bit of pain and suffering for taking away what was _hers_.

They were supposed to marry! They were supposed to marry and live here in the little mill, capturing any trespassers and giving whatever their lord desired. They were supposed to be happy and well and together, but that little whore had to be born and give a fucking _castle_ and a _title_ to some stupid Stark bastard and take away everything that Myranda wanted.

_Little bitch,_ she wanted to scream at her face.

“Die!” She cried at the wind, finally falling on the ground. She hugged her legs close to her chest, hiding her tears behind her knees and crying and screaming as much as her heart desired. “Die already…” She gasped for air, fingers digging into her legs and body trembling with fury and rage and bloodlust. “And give him back to _me_!” Finally growling her last words out, she got up to her feet, dragging her sleeve against her face to dry her cold tears. She stumbled inside the shack, uncaring for the foul smell or the deadly mould, she braved forward to the only place that had truly belonged to Ramsay in the little shitty place.

It’d been years since she had last seen the fucker who had made her pin after him like some sort of pink-eyed princess, and even after so many years she still did love everything about him. Ramsay Snow, bastard of Lord Roose Bolton, was once her best friend, they’d shared hunts and meals and fought together and against one another. In him, Myranda found a partner, someone with a mind that was like hers, who saw the beauty of blood-stained hands and chilling screams and the chaos deceit could bring.

She was eleven when they first met, an ugly clash of titans where Myranda wished to see what the boy had that made so many men tumble in fear and disgust. The only reason they had ever interacted was that she was the kennel master’s daughter, and he had a strong fascination for the dogs, training them in a way that Myranda had never seen, enrapturing her with his own enchanting ways. Through the hounds, he had started to have a place in his father’s castle, going hunting every week or so, and Myranda had done her best to mirror the older bot to a point that even Lord Bolton couldn’t deny that they made an incredible duo.

The thrill of the chase, his heavy breath on her nape as he guided her position, his soft voice telling her the best place to aim: be it in a human, a boar, a shadow cat. Her blood felt both cold and hot, bothering her in ugly, untamed ways that clamoured for him. It was with such insane desire that she walked inside the shack, entering a small corridor and heading directly to the last door in it. The last place they had been alone when he received his orders and the duty that would bound him to a bastard lord for as long as his father wished.

Ramsay had become dispensable the minute they started chasing his previous lovers in the woods, luring the stupid girls into the forest and hunting them for fun and boredom, something she had suggested quietly in his ear, just another plot to tie him closely to her and to erase the one that had dared to touch him before she could. The year they started hunting those girls was the year Ramsay was sent to Winterfell to swear himself to Jon Snow. It was the year that she had lost him.

Green eyes slowly looked away from her feet, staring blankly at the heavy door barring her entrance to a room that could have been hers too, if Ramsay had stayed and they had married. She reached for the keys she always kept close, unlocking the door as her hands gently pushed the door open. She entered the dusty room with heavy steps and heady memories making her burn with longing and desire for a man who was now servant to a bastard lord.

Not that bastardy mattered, especially now to Jon Snow, elevated Lord of a castle and Lord of House Targaryen, with his mad lady wife.

She hoped they burned to death.

A sneer took over her face as her fingers passed over a dusty table, coming out stained with dirt. She looked around the room, and Myranda swore she could still smell his scent in there. There was a pink fabric of bad quality thrown widely around the floor, in the same place they’d been since the day Ramsay had torn them from the hooks in the wall, destroying everything that tied him remotely to his father House in a fit of rage. That had happened on the day they got the news.

It had been a cold morning, a few moons after Reek’s death and Ramsay hadn’t been well enough to function; fidgeting and having bursts of anger that spelt out disaster. She’d been comingevery dayy, bringing and preparing food, trying to pull him out of the woods and do some service in the castle. Roose’s men had appeared in the nearly noon, a small notice in hands demanding Ramsay’s presence at the castle on the following morning, that he’d part to Winterfell to serve Lord Jon Snow, future lord of House Targaryen.

His smiled was scorched in her mind, a twisted image of contained rage as he closed the door in their faces and turned around to face the room. He had remained still for what had appeared to be hours until something made him snap and trash the place. Myranda still had scars from when she had tried to contain him.

She moved to the bed, sitting on it, ignoring the cloud of dust rising from it. She breathed in, ignoring the itch in her nostrils and throat as she fell on the bed, arms thrown carelessly around her head. A dream came to mind, the one she most envisioned, the one she desired to become reality beyond anything else.

Images of laying just like that, naked and exposed as he fucked her hard and hit her good, biting and taking blood and possessing her like no other ever could nor would come to her mind’s eye. Smoke from the incense burner she so adored would curl around them in a dark room illuminated by the small hearth, bathing them into its fiery glory. Maybe they’d have just returned from their hunts, fresh blood in hand sand exhilaration that made them fly high and high. 

Ramsay should have been by her side, not serving some green lordly boy and his child-wife.

 

•••

 

Returning to the Dreadfort, Myranda had barely missed the arrival of her lord. Barely an hour had passed since she returned from her little stroll and Lord Roose had burst through the gates with his small party. Some Winterfell and moving villagers accompanied him, no doubt more people seeking work and some place to live.

Migration in the North was rare, but it usually happened when Lords moved around. The small folk preferred to seek their safety, and usually accompanied them should the lord allow. Lord Bolton enjoyed fresh meat, as they were always short of working force. They worked in the fields, in the small port, or aided in the castle. Lord Bolton wasn’t afraid of delivering punishments that made his cattle diminish quickly. New faces were common to replace the ones who disappeared.

Myranda was lucky to be in the courtyard to see their arrival. Her eyes had immediately roamed over the small crowd, over the young ones getting off carts or falling exhausted onto any surface, weary from the long and hard walk from Winterfell to Dreadfort. None were who she hoped to be and she quickly was disinterested.

Moving her gaze back to the Bolton at the head of the retinue, Myranda observed quietly as he moved down from his mount, dismissing it quickly to a stableboy. Lord Bolton gave orders and talked quietly with his castellan. Men were quick to obey him, but the crowd seemed distracted.

They were all whispering to each other, some of the guards quick to fall into excited conversation with the members of the Household. A buzz seemed to be over their heads, and even the small folk, filling in awkwardly in the courtyard, were confused and almost detached to the great view of the castle. There was none of that complete focus and caution Myranda was used to. The small folk stood straighter, bolder, looking around with something akin to regret.

Myranda felt like most of them wanted to turn around and not come back. And it was not because they felt the falling dread of the dark fortress that loomed over them.

Something had happened at Winterfell, at that wretched wedding, that had affected even the insignificant peasants. Myranda did not bother with the old woman that had accompanied her outside, moving away from her and heading to the assembled men around Lord Bolton with confidence.

Her father was at the outer rim; the kennel master, unimportant until the Lord himself wished to hunt. But her father was a man who desired to be recognized by his lord. He would do anything Roose Bolton asked. He also would know what happened, since Lord Bolton no doubt sent a raven earlier at least, warning his inner circle of whatever had happened.

The stupid man hadn’t told her a thing.

Pulling at his rogue doublet, Myranda met his wide gaze with a hard one of her own. The man sneered at her and swatted her hand away. He was already dismissing her, not even listening to what she wanted, and turning away from her. She grabbed his sleeve with a stronger grip and hissed out, lowly as to not call the attention of the Lord.

“What happened, da?” Her eyes moved nervously to the men standing behind him. They all looked tense. Her stupid father didn’t seem to notice.

“What you talking about, girl?!” He pushed her away, grabbing her hair and pulling her away from Lord Bolton. She let him manhandle her with a grunt, gritting her teeth and balling her fists to not punch him away.

“Y’all are _so tense_ ,” She singsonged, narrowing her eyes on his twitchy behaviour. “People are talking, and it’s not even an hour since the lord arrived.”

“Ye have no business with whatever is happening,” He spit out. They entered into a small alcove and he shoved her to the wall. Myranda let herself fall against it and kept her gaze down, as to not provoke him further. “Go to the kitchen and wait for the gossip, _and don’t come close again._ ”

Myranda wanted to slap him and remind him of the times where _she_ was the apple of his eye, hunting with his beloved Lord and being a _prodigy_ at hunting and training the hounds. Defying expectations and having more than just a tight cunt.

Ramsay was gone and her easy connection to the lord passed, and now she was nothing more than something to be ashamed. And Myranda had been shoved aside, her skill with the hounds and the bow not mattering at all now that she hadn’t someone to stand for her.

Her father left her there, clustered against the wall like a tiny and meek mouse, hidden for short moments before the old lady that had accompanied her outside came screaming and dragged her back to the kitchens.

Myranda wanted to _scream_.

 

•••

 

She received a punishment for her impertinence. The entire night, Myranda remained in the kitchen, not allowed to eat and only drinking cold water. A terrible punishment, too great for such a small thing as walking away momentarily to talk with her father, but Myranda was Myranda. The abnormal girl who enjoyed dogs and hunting and fighting. The girl that had been Ramsay’s closest confidante in the castle.

The brutal girl who was said to hunt with the terrible boy in the woods.

She deserved no light punishment, and none of the older staff in the kitchen took pity on her. The night shift was the worse, and Myranda had worked the entirety of the day. She wanted to fall and not get up, she was so tired she thought she would die drowned inside the big soup pot she was stirring.

But she gritted her teeth and struggled on, even if her hands shook with weariness and her head hurt like the Seven Hells.

The newest personal, trained at night as to not disturb the busy work at daytime, moved around the kitchen. They were monitored closely by some of the best servants, guards close as to take note of any suspicious behaviour. In the Bolton household, there was no such thing as trust, and their constant need for more people made them certain to suspect any and every one who entered it.

The children — four dirty things that had useful tiny hands and fingers to reach what others couldn’t and bodies small enough to sneak and listen to what the older couldn’t — were huddled together and watched closely as one of the older staff told them of their possible future chores and how they would pick the select best.

Even though it was late at night, the kitchen was full and abuzz with the newcomers. The children were quiet, but the older ones were quick to ramble about what they had witnessed in Winterfell. A select group of girls received acute attention from the Bolton staff, no doubt some servant girls who had been present at the wedding feast.

Still, Myranda’s tired body and strict orders to remain at her station stopped her from moving closer.

Some loose words reached her, all of the shrill voices filled wonder, awe, admiration.

“Lady Daenerys _saved_ the savage girls!” The murmur increased, and the guards did not slap them into silence as they usually did. Myranda knew the idiots were listening to the first-hand gossip.

By the corner of the eye, Myranda watched as a tiny, dirty boy detached from the group of children, moved quietly to gently push a pot that was beside the young girl that all had been listening to. The pot fell with a loud bang that made her head throb. Myranda flicked when the ones closest screamed, but kept her eyes on the boy as he hastily retreated.

The guards dragged the girl away after it, blaming her for the mess. One mistake was one mistake too many for a trainee. Especially at the kitchens and when they were outsiders.

The remained quiet, watching them from the back. Silent and watchful and resourceful. He had wanted the girl quiet and he had done it so while taking advantage of the group’s distraction. While the children spoke with each other, asked questions and just altogether were noisy, the boy remained behind. His head was low, but his eyes moved to each face with care, not a sound falling out of his mouth for the whole night.

 

•••

 

“Have you heard?”

The kennel master’s daughter looked away from the dishes she was cleaning with a rag to stare at Violet, the blond sweet servant girl who seemed to think Myranda cared for her pitiful attempts at friendship. She wanted to sneer at the girl, slap her pretty face away from her, alas, Myranda was but a servant now that Ramsay was gone. Myranda smiled sweetly at her, leaning towards her with carefully faked eagerness.

“What?”

Violet giggled, her blond curls giggling prettily as she looked around them for any stray listeners before leaning closer. Myranda’s neck hurt where her father had gripped tight, her body screamed its exhaustion at her, ready to knell over and sleep for days but she did not let it show. She would not let it show.

“Lord Bolton returned, and you won’t believe what has happened!” Myranda pushed down the urge to gorge the girl’s pretty blue eyes out of her sockets. Why wouldn’t she simply tell what happened? But Myranda had to play along. Violet was one of the few ones that still spoke of her, ignorant of Myranda’s past and what she was capable of like only a sheltered little girl was capable of.

“Is it Ramsay?” Hope flickered inside her, and her grip on the rag and dish tightened. “Is he back?” Maybe she hadn’t seen him. Maybe that was the reason her father was so tense.

Violet blinked, gulping slightly before looking away with a strained smile and a slight shake of her head.

“No, no, thank goodness. You know the only son of Lord Bolton returning home is the Lord Domeric.” Myranda _really_ wanted to gauge the girl’s eyes out and let her be eaten alive by her dogs. Domeric was a fucking pussy. “It’s about the Targaryen’s lands.”

“Oh,” Myranda blinked, tilting her head and lifting an eyebrow at the servant girl. All that ruckus for those fuckers leaving warm Winterfell for the cold Gift. “And what does the new castle of the North have other than snow and rocks?”

Violet smirked then, leaning closer.

“Precious rocks.”

Myranda stared at her, numb for a few moments as she processed the fact that perhaps the North had other things of value other than wood and pelts, all in the hand of a ruined House and the deplorable Night’s Watch. Precious rocks were far too vague for Myranda to really think about, but by saying something as precious rocks could only mean that they found something, maybe gold. But why would someone as lowly as Violet know of the discovering of a house, even a house as low as the newest Targaryens?

“What…”

“Myranda Bones!” She jerked away from the girl, turning toward the kitchen’s entrance, where Steelshanks, Lord Roose’s captain, stood. “Your Lord calls for you,” He was already turning around, no doubt expecting her to follow. “Come at once.”

Her body was exhausted, begging for the embrace of her thin mattress. Her eyes hurt, begging for rest. She wanted nothing more than to deny him and tell them all to fuck themselves, but she wouldn’t.

She left the rag and half-cleaned dish on the table for Violet to deal with and ran to the man, falling dutifully and demurely behind him as he stalked toward the Lord’s solar. They passed by the kitchen’s entrance and Myranda saw that little boy from the previous night ducking on the corner, quick to go out of their view. She dismissed him, too tired to think further of his apparent spying. They went up the steps, and Myranda asked herself, in her tired mind, why the Lord would ever call for her presence. Maybe he wanted pleasure? That was an easy outcome, a cunt was the most prized gift for a man who had no lover to speak of. An untouched cunt even more so.

Perhaps he wanted her for his son? Domeric Bolton had warned of his coming back home. The castellan had to warn the household to prepare for the arrival of the heir to the Dreadfort, who was coming North with an entourage of at least two hundred men, women and children, all heading North still, seeking a home in the new town surrounding Queenscrown. Most of them bastards, hedge knights and sellswords of the Vale, it was said.

Why Domeric Bolton was coming back with a common folk army at his back, Myranda did not know and did not care. But now that she knew that Queenscrown had, possibly, some pretty shiny rocks, it was understandable why those greedy folk was going there.

Something truly impressive was the speed at which the information had arrived there. In the Dreadfort, it had only been known on the previous day. Maybe Lord Bolton had sent some kind of missive to the Vale and his heir had, for some reason, spread the news amongst the small folk.

The cold was getting to her, and she started to tremble slightly in her bad quality clothes. The guard was unmoving and uncaring, as she knew he would be. The exhaustion made her weaker, and that was the worse part of her punishment.

Thankfully, it did not take long for them to reach the lord’s solar and soon, she was standing in front of his great dark desk. Myranda moved her eyes down and clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for his direct words. It didn’t take long for him to dress her, his voice low and his words carefully chosen.

“Miss Bones,” He started, slow and almost uncaring. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, my lord.” She answered quickly, not bothering with raising her gaze to him. It was not her place to meet the eyes of a lord.

“You were very…close to Ramsay. Do you still speak with him?”

What a jerk. “No, my lord,” She answered. “It’s too expensive to use paper and the crows.”

“Ah,” He spoke as if he did not know that she was a mere daughter of a kennel master with no lands or business to his name other than the work he did to House Bolton. “I see.” He did not, she wanted to say. Lord Bolton didn’t see and didn't understand shit, he only wanted to point out how dependent on Ramsay she was. The only reason he remembered her was _because_ of Ramsay. “Well, would you like to regain contact with your… _friend_?”

The realization came slowly, making her blink dully at her feet before rising to meet his clear eyes. Her hands opened and closed, grasping at nothing. Her jaw twitched and she dared not to look away from the man that could give her what she had wished for so long.

He smiled, sharp and sly and promising and dark. She could see his sons in him.

“A few of our people wish to move North.” He leaned into his armchair, tilting his head and raking his gaze over her form. “You could accompany them. You _will_ accompany them.” He intertwined his fingers, putting them over his thin lips. “Ramsay is awfully close to the new Lord Targaryen, but it seems he has forgotten his duties, and I’d like you to ratify that for me.”

Ice cold fear fell over her. Ramsay had gone to Jon Snow with the prospected to have a close eye on the boy and the Starks. Had he stopped reporting? Had he overlooked his duties? If so, what made him turn his back on Lord Bolton?

Oh, gods, she realized. She was going to be ordered to kill him. It was the only possible punishment for Ramsay. He had disobeyed Lord Bolton, he would die. Simple as that.

“Forgotten…?” She dared to ask, her whole body shaking with fear and weariness.

“Aye,” He nodded to her, as calm as ever. “For example, I don’t remember him ever telling me of young Jon’s discoveries.” _Others take your stupid ass_ , she thought angrily at the bastard, wherever he was.

“My lord!” She gulped, taking a half a step forward and then thinking better of it when he lifted one eyebrow at her. Myranda wanted to beg him for mercy, wanted to tell him that she could make things right; that she could make Ramsay see his mistakes. She stepped back into her place, biting her lip. “What do you wish me to do, my lord?” She held her breath, waiting.

He smiled. “Well, get close, closer still, and be sure to tell me what he doesn’t, eh?” He let his hands fall to the armrests, leaning forward. “I want to know everything that happens there, and you, Myranda Bones, shall tell me and do whatever I shall fit.”

Something unfurled inside her. Relief and fear dominated her mind, battling against each other as she sagged down, almost falling to her knees. Her mind fell messy, she felt tired and heavy, ready to lie down on the floor and never get up again.

“Are we clear?” She gasped for air, eyes never moving away from him. All she could think was that Ramsay would not die. Ramsay was not going to die. He was still useful and would remain living as long as he kept himself useful. Myranda would go North and would show him how wrong he was, and so they would report and do their duty together. “ _Are we clear?”_ She blinked, dazed. Her vision focused on her lord once more. She tightened her jaw and fisted her hands.

“As you wish, my lord.”

She would show Ramsay how wrong he had been and would have him back to the right side.

 

•••

 

She woke up late on the following day, rested but still mentally tired and still excited.

Myranda was going back to Ramsay! She would be at his side, would feel him, would listen to him. No more dreams and fantasies to bring her to her tears. No wild runs back to ruin of a mill just to feel the remembrance of his presence.

Alleviated from the darkness that had taken over her since he left her behind, Myranda flew high for most of the day. Her duties were done quickly and seamlessly, better than she ever even attempted to. She snapped at no one and made sure to hear as much as she could of what had happened at Winterfell.

Servants, the young and foolish ones, were delighted and amazed, full to their brim with excited dreams of what Queenscrown held for them. People roamed around, discussing quietly or laughing with hope. Their eyes and soul were full of greed and songs, wanting a reward as good as those savage Essosi girls by the hands of Lady Targaryen.

Accountants of the beautiful dresses she wore and the gifts she bared, given by her husband the luckiest bastard in Westeros, showing the richness that awaited beyond the Northern borders that gave way to the stupid protectors of the realm.

They all buzzed with an energy that made the castle seem brighter and lighter. Lord Bolton watched it all in silence, not once interrupting or punishing the young crowd who so boldly decided to leave his protection. It was all carefully done. He held no wish to give reason to Lord Stark’s son suspect about the rash life in the Dreadfort.

Those that wished to live because they wanted to escape; those were quickly given a talk. No little-scared mouse would leave the castle’s walls to spread _rumors_ of the Lord Roose’s ruling.

Myranda did not involve herself much, only informing her father of her leaving and turning her back on his shrill denying. She spent the next days finishing her duties and making a list of what she should prepare to leave and what she should do with she would leave behind. Ignoring the interrogations and deaths of those deviants was the best for her, as she would leave soon with the others to join Lord Domeric’s party when they headed North.

With that in mind, she completely forgot the curious boy that had arrived at the kitchens. A passing servant thrusting a small note into her hand and quickly moving away changed that.

The note was in a handwriting that she could know anywhere at any point in her life. The jerky letters, the hard-pressed ink mirroring his strength and impatience. For a moment, she breathed into the paper, imagining it was drenched into his musk and disappointed to find nothing that she remembered.

The note was short, telling her what to do and when she should do it.

As expected, he only contacted her to tell her what he needed her to do for him. Anger and delight mixed in her gut, making her sigh and throw the paper into a passing torch. Watching it burn was satisfying enough, but the anticipation to finally have blood on her hands again was even more so.

Her target, the little boy, behaved just as Ramsay said he would. A little spy that looked at everything happening around him closely. He paid close attention to what she did in particular, and for the first time, the day after she received her orders, she met his prodding gaze head-on, holding his stare for a long moment before she turned her back on him. She watched him closely and waited for him to send the message Ramsay needed him to send.

Two days after she had silently stared at him, telling him with no exact words that he should as expected of him by his master, the boy was waiting at the door of her room. Hesitating for a moment in the dark and damp hallway, Myranda observed him with cautious eyes. A rider had left Dreadfort in the early morning, heading South. Myranda knew that he was waiting for his reward; direct passage to Queenscrown.

Ramsay promised many things to many people to get what he wanted.

Too bad he was a liar.

Smiling softly, she walked forward. Stopping at a short distance from him, she observed him through hooded eyes, debating if she should prod for whatever information the boy had listened to that had made Ramsay want him dead. Maybe she could get him to spill about his master and what he wanted with sending the boy here. Perhaps even _why_ it mattered that the boy sent word to his master, no doubt sending sensitive information to them, before this death.

Ramsay’s games were always so much fun.

“Good evening,” She kept her tone friendly, bending slightly on her knees so she didn’t completely loom over the boy.

“He told me to search for Myranda Bones,” The boy whispered quickly, eyes moving around constantly, in search for other who could witness their small exchange. Myranda did not worry. No one would come here at the hour. No one dared to roam the Dreadfort’s hallways so freely.

“That’s me,” She nodded slowly, an amused smile on her lips that did not reflect the impatience bubbling inside her.

He gulped, finally meeting her eyes. “You’ll take me there, then?” Her lips twitched, and she found an easy way to prod him for some of the secrets he hid. She smiled, wide and full of teeth.

“Maybe…” She dragged her voice, narrowing her eyes at him and enjoying his scared eyes and squirming form. “If you tell me something good, you see,” She liked the tip of his nose, ignoring his flinch as he took a wide step back.

“Mister Snow told me you would take me,” He snapped back at her.

“Well,” She licked lips, getting back to her full height and tilting her head to the side. “Did Mister Snow ever tell you I agreed?” They were at an impasse, but Myranda knew he would bulge. Entrance to Queenscrown, apparently, was a much-coveted opportunity. An easy way in that potentially brought him close to the inner circle of House Targaryen was something that would please his master.

Young ones were always the easiest ones. They never really noticed their oncoming end, neither did they notice that their masters wouldn’t want them to risk their position so openly.

She smiled, turning to face her door. “Come at dawn to the forest, I always go for a short walk,” She stopped, looking at him over her should with a sly smile. “I trust you will know where to find me.”

She entered her room, cackling when the sound of his desperate run reached her ears.

Tomorrow was promising to be a rather enjoyable day.

 

•••

 

Myranda waited patiently in a small clearing close to the path that led to Ramsay’s mill. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and the flowers danced with a slight breeze. The day was pleasantly warm as she sat on the tall grass, fiddling with some herbs that needed some cutting to be utilized. At the distance, she could hear a small current of water rushing amongst the trees. Wildlife was calm and ever growing around her, and the overall picture was a promise of a pleasant morning and early noon.

Face tilting up toward the sky, she let her eyelids fall over her orbs, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight as the hesitant steps of a small child interrupted the peaceful picture. Myranda smiled, not turning face the little boy. Headed to venture further close to her, and yet Myranda remained silent, turning her face slowly around to make the sun reach all comers of her skin.

The boy moved around her, silent and probably crouched down, thinking himself silent and unnoticed for a long while before finally stopping at her back.

“Imma here!” He squeaked out, nervous.

She did not bother to answer him, moving her shoulders in a circle, loosening them as she cracked her next to one side and then the other. “So I hear.” She sighed out softly. “Have you thought about what you will say to me in exchange?” And he would tell her what she desired. “I’m afraid not everything is for free my dear.” She moved forward, extending her legs. Her arms and torso moved over the long members, mindful of the leather clothes she wore as she stretched her body sinuously slow.

The boy remained silent for long stretches of time, for which Myranda used to continue stretching herself. Though the way she acted was mostly to bring the boy uneasy and make him more malleable to her will, she was itching to run across the distance between them and wring his pretty little neck.

She wanted to scream at his face to tell her already, damnit.

“He—I—It’s!” She could just hear the frustration in his voice. She settled on her knees, ready to get up at a moment’s notice. Her left hand reached for the dearest gift Ramsay had left for her, her rogue hands closing around the wood with surety. “Me jus’ watched Lady Stark fer some days! She messed around with Lord Stark’s papers an’ stuff an’ ask’d around ‘bout Lyanna…Please, will yer take me wi’ ye?!” The boy finally screamed. Hope and fear and a whole bunch of other things that Myranda did not worry about clear in his voice.

She scowled. All that work just because Lady Stark had snooped around her husband’s things?

What a disappointment.

“Well,” She said, clipped and curt and nothing of the serenity and slyness she had spoken with before. Her right hand reached for the multiple shafts resting close to her thigh. The wind blew slightly to her left, heading in the boy’s direction. “That’s boring.” She moved swiftly to her feet. “He could’ve poisoned you or something,” She heard his breath hitch, the slight shift of his feet as he started to move away from him. “There’s no need for me to lose some arrows and energy on some small thing like you.” He turned and she fired at him while turning, not even needing looking to know that the arrow hit his arm.

He screamed, falling on the ground but soon pushing himself forward and shoving his body out of the clearing. Myranda followed silently, at a slower pace as she shot arrow after arrow, making him run into a zig-zag.

Her twinkling laugh echoed, somehow sounding awkward without’s Ramsay’s own at her side. The boy started sobbing.

Her next arrow hit his leg, and he fell again. Myranda did not worry about catching up to his poor self. She danced to him, around him as he dragged himself forward, not giving up at the face of death. The life of spies were short, and they usually never lasted longer than some months or a few years. Those that were sent of their master’s nest never lasted though.

Those were always plucked out, in a decade or in a day, they never survived long enough.

“Please, please, please, please…” She tutted, growing at his small form as she finally stopped beside him. He reached one hand forward, grasping at the grass with desperation. She stumped her heeled boot over his tiny hand.

He screamed.

She clicked her tongue, letting go of her bow and her remaining arrows, leaving them to fall to the ground. She straddled his back, grabbing his hair and pulling him close to her chest. The boy sobbed and trashed in her hold, uttering ‘pleases’.

Ramsay asked her to please be rid of the little spy that wished very much to go to Queenscrown.

“Ramsay said you were very eager to go to Queenscrown,” Her other hand grabbed his neck firmly, moulding him close to her. She caressed his hair. “Said you did not even think when he propositioned you to do some little things for him in exchange for passage…” The words had been curt, but Myranda still wondered if the boy had come to wish to go to Queenscrown for loyalty to his master or because of the prospect of having a good life there. “You must understand,” She took her hunting knife from where it rested on her lower back, pressing the flat of the blade onto his face. She breathed on his ear. “People lie,” She snickered on his skin. “Mister Snow lies, I lie, everybody lies.” She dragged the blade to his neck, putting its tip between her fingers holding him. “Unfortunately for you, you’ll die for your foolish believing.”

And she dragged the knife over his skin, feeling the hot blood seeping from him as he gurgled, drowning on what remained of his life. She took a deep breath, letting the knife fall to the ground as she used the hand that had killed him to soothe his distress, petting his small little head and brushing her bloodied fingers through his coarse dirty hair.

_Ah,_ she sighed digging her fingers into his wound and relishing on the life spilling out of the sweet, sweet boy. Her father's hounds would enjoy his fresh meat.  _Death becomes you, my dear little bird._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all were all "omg, take out Ramsay he is so bad, such a bad influence, blah blah blah". Well, I present you my other favourite character, Myranda!
> 
> Ramsay's stupid plan sounds stupid, but chapter eleven will show the consequences of his actions.
> 
> For those of you who did not understand: a little bird of Varys found a way into Winterfell and Ramsay used him, making false promises and then sending him to the Dreadfort with Lord Bolton, who left earlier. The little bird was told that he should find Myranda and she would take him to Queenscrown once he sent a raven to his master, Varys. The little bird did so but got killed instead, because no one likes loose ends. The purpose of this over-elaborate plan shall be revealed in the 11th chapter.
> 
> BUTT! What Ramsay does not expect is to Myranda actually go to QC. Which may complicate things. >:)
> 
> Yes, she does hate Jon because he took Ramsay away from her. Yes, she is batshit crazy. But she is skilled.
> 
> If you think it's not possible to shoot the way described, search up Lars Anderson on Youtube.
> 
> Yes, Domeric is going to appear at some point. Yay.
> 
> We got mentions of Reek, of the mill and Ramsay's past. I would very much like to hear what you guys think. As to Myranda's own story, I mixed fact from both book and series. She is the daughter of the kennel master at the Dreadfort, and Ben Bones is the kennel master in the books. He takes care of Ramsay's dogs too and serves as a spy in the Bastard's boys.
> 
> So many spies.
> 
> See y'all soon!
> 
> ~Mari


	10. Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The path to Queenscrown had a story of its own, and the Daenerys who arrived there was not the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION! READ THIS!
> 
> Please, go back to Jon's previous chapter, chapter eight, right now and read an additional scene which had not been there and this stupid author only noticed it now. Click Control+F and search for ["Make sure] and it should jump directly to the scene in question. It's soon after Jon interrogates the whore spy in Winter Town. It's VERY IMPORTANT, and if you don't read it, nothing will make sense.
> 
> A thousand apologies for the delay, but I needed to take the time and solve some problems. I hope this chapter, beta-ed by the amazing ThScarletGarden, is worth the wait.
> 
> This chapter deals with some delicate matters, some trigger warnings for you. The explicit rating is showing its ugly side again in this chapter.

The fourth time her moon’s blood arrived since it begun, Dany had not been expecting it. She thought she ought to be expecting their child already, but on the morning of their leaving her undergarments were stained red and Lady Marya sighed in relief when entering her room. Though motherhood seemed distant and terrifying, Dany thought it’d be what was expected of her. An heir would secure their hold in the future, would lay a foundation to their starting reign.

“You are too young, my dear,” Marya tucked a stray lock of fair hair behind her ear. Marya was beautiful. Dany hoped to one day be as stunning as the woman who taught her kindness. The family she had, the simple and fulfilling life filled with laughter and picnics in the flower fields was everything Dany could ever hope for herself and hers.

“But I am a grown woman now.” The reply felt weak and unfitting, and Marya’s sad gaze increased the feeling tenfold.

“Oh, Princess,” Melisandre said, small smile aimed at Dany. “How we wish you were so.”

Dany thought wise not to comment.

The morning went by listlessly as if a thick fog slowed everything around her. Each object loaded being registered by her lethargic mind with faint numbness. Her clothes were stored, her utensils and various presents disappeared from her sight as she moved out with Lady Maria and Melisandre. Exiting her room, Dany caressed the red door her husband so painstakingly painted for her. Jon wanted her to have a taste of home in a place she’d never set foot before, and here she was leaving it not one month after. He mustn’t have thought they’d leave so quickly. She admired it for a moment longer, until Lady Melisandre called for her and she had to turn away, a silent goodbye to the place that had given her and her husband privacy and intimacy for the first time.

The halls were busy, people fleeting every way and the other, skipping around with careful but hurried steps as they approached the guest quarters given to Lord Stannis. Dany thought it was only fair Jon had a last lone meal with his relatives before moving away from his childhood home, so she let him be and called for her own patchwork family.

The solar given to Lord Stannis had been full of trinkets and parchments over the last moon. Offerings and gifts given by many, papers and scrolls filled with contracts signed and to sign the same as their large pool of samples were given as proof to those to depart. All dignitaries had been present in the solar, with all kind of manners from all over their known world, from the far lands of the Golden Empire to merchants that had travelled the whole world. Dany had met here with people who’d ignored her for a great part of her life, like Ser Kevan of House Lannister. In such a solar, alliances were forged and statements of power were made clear. Jon had been relentless when negotiating, in his cold and quiet way.

“Greetings, m’ladies!” Now, the place was emptied by all but a simple and long wooden table presented with a great feasting. Ser Davos’ greeting was more of a grunt, as he was trying to get his young son to let go of his neck. Lady Marya sighed in usual exasperation but Dany ignored her, beaming widely as she ran to hold the younger boy in her own arms.

“A fine morning to you, Ser!” she laughed alongside the boy, who threw himself into her hold and freed his father. The other babes squealed in mutual greeting, pudgy hands grabbing at nothing as they tried to reach her. The one who could walk grabbed her fine travel skirt while the other remained on a little rug, watched by Dany’s own grumpy cousin. Lady Selyse was nowhere to be seen. Dany felt Shireen’s absence acutely, so much it hurt.

_It is only you that is missing, my beautiful heart sister._ Dany twirled around the little boys, stopping beside her lord cousin to greet him with a kiss on his short bearded cheek. He grimaced and she fully ignored it, moving to sit at the chair to his right. They all arranged themselves while Dany let Devan sit beside her. She took a moment to look at her family, not by blood but so dearly loved. Ser Davos was sitting by Lord Stannis’ left, profusely thanking him for allowing the presence of his rowdy boys in such a private setting. Lady Melisandre was drinking beside him, side-eyeing the little Stannis with curiosity as Lady Marya handled Steffon, the baby, with a cooing voice.

They ate, spoke and laughed with each other under the careful watch of Lord Stannis. Careless for a few short moments in a morning meal with the bittersweet aftertaste of a goodbye. Lady Marya could barely hold herself together each time she looked at her husband, who she’d part with for Gods knew how long again, and then she’d look at Dany and the young lady felt lost at what to say, what to do. She’d have Melisandre, Lord Stannis and Davos for about another year until Jon was sixteen and legally ready to hold his title as Lord. She’d be alone then, but hope was ever growing in her young heart that by then she’d find more friendships and family in the new faces surrounding her.

They stayed in the little solar for long — or, what seemed to be a long time. Soon, a servant knocked gently on the door. Their warning was simple but it shook her to her core, making it hard to get up from her chair on her own while her family got up on their feet. Stannis’ warm and strong hand was kind as he offered help. Taking the proffered hand, Dany gulped, never straying her gaze from the deep blue eyes that were there for her since her very first memory.

She accepted it, getting up on her feet. Lady Melisandre moved close, lacing her arm with hers as they walked out into the corridors.

Dany squeezed the woman’s arm as Lord Stannis passed ahead of them. They were left alone, walking calmly and in no hurry. They watched the family walking in front of them, the children free of any worries, unbothered by the trials of life under the loving care of simple parents, not ever knowing the difficulties their orders went through. Dany remembered Ser Davos’ tales of when he lived in Flea Bottom, a street rat that survived one day at a time, unsure of the next. He had built his life so those who he loved wouldn’t have to go through what he had, he built his life and took his chances and here they were, with titles and long lives ahead of them.

If Stannis hadn’t taken her, if she had escaped with her brother lost in Essos, would she had to do the same? Live on the streets or be the esteemed guest in one rich and powerful house, ready to be used for her claim to a throne usurped?

Would she have made it? With her soft hands, fanciful dresses and many escapades and easy personality. Would Dany have made it?

“What is it that troubles your mind, Princess?”

Snapping her gaze to the woman, Dany frowned in disapproval.

“Do not use such titles when referring to me, Lady Mel.” She looked at the busy corridor, filled with many servants, each with different loyalties unknown to them at first glance.

“Ah.” The woman was amused, eyebrows arching and a sly curve to her lips that told Dany she did not care for the listening ears around them. Probably thought her Lord would protect them from the lowly humans that wished harm upon His Chosen One. Dany wondered what the Red Woman would say about Ramsay’s illustrious spies following each step and breath she took. “If my lady wishes it so.”

No matter, she thought, smiling lovingly at the woman. Dany would protect her if ever needed. Though, she doubted Lady Melisandre needed any protection when she stood beside Lord Stannis, as sad as it was. Once he left for Dragonstone, Dany worried dearly for his mind. Each day, he was closer and closer to Melisandre, and though he did not reply to or acknowledge her preaching, he did not actively defy it like he once did.

“Why won’t you follow Lady Selyse?” The question was harmless, and it burned on the back of her mind for a while now. Melisandre had always been primarily of Lady Selyse’s personal household and had never strayed too far from the woman. Now, she was willing to spend a full year and a few moons away from the bitter lady.

Melisandre stopped walking, turning to look down at her. Dany indulged her, earnest and trusting as a child to their mother. The older woman cradled her face, thumbs caressing her cheeks as she smiled softly at her.

“I shall not leave you, Daenerys, as long as you wish me by your side. ” Dany almost smiled back, but she had first to ask what had always made her hesitate to believe the affection Melisandre showered her with.

“Because I am your Chosen One. ” Her gaze fell down, disappointment clear. “Your Princess that Was Promised.”

Melisandre nudged her face up, crouching slightly so she could be level with her.

“Because I watched you grow. ” The kiss she left upon her brow was ablaze with love and affection, making Dany’s heart grow twice its size and her lips widen in a beautiful grin. “And you are family to me.”

Dany believed her wholeheartedly.

 

•••

 

Walking out into the courtyard, the summer sun blinded her for what felt like centuries. She blinked, eyes focusing on the carts, wheelhouses and hundreds of people fluttering around the place. Her heart seemed to expand three times its sizes in her chest. Her own throat seemed to turn against her, making it difficult to breathe as nervousness took control of her young body. One, two, three steps into the crowd and Daenerys was never more grateful for the support of her guardians — _her family_ — surrounding her as they walked towards her beautiful white mare. She helped Lady Maria with putting her children into their small cart, chatting quietly with the loud boys.

Mud splattered everywhere and voices were boisterous and demanding as servants brought an endless stream of baggage and chests, their masters ordering in numerous languages for this or that to be done. All that activity was strange to witness in a place as peaceful as Winterfell. The castle’s brooding appearance was at odds with the colourful mismatching of the different personalities temporarily residing in it. Mayhap the reason for Lord Stark to remain behind in his home was to see it returned to its peaceful and quiet stage. His wife and family had been awfully rattled with the wedding and the short but busy weeks the guests remained there. Dany often wondered what her wedding would be called, what people would write about the last Targaryen princess.

A monumental meeting that brought foreigners to the far and desolate North? A tragedy that put an end to the rich lineage of House Targaryen with bastard blood? A revolutionary start to an era of change and progress to the stubborn Northern ways? A blasphemy of a marriage that disrespected the Pact of Ice and Fire made centuries ago?

Dany had no idea and had no way of knowing what people around her thought of what had happened here. Maybe Ramsay could tell her, maybe Jon would know of what his father thought. Lord Stannis and Ser Davos and Marya and Melisandre; all of them could say and think and perhaps guess, but how could they know for sure?

The future seemed vast and dark now that she stood beside her Silver. She was ready to go. A heavy and sturdy cloak rested on her shoulders, a loose hood just waiting to be pulled up if snow dared to fall from the skies. Her boots were thick, and her travelling clothes adequate to go on horseback. She was dressed in grey and black, a mixture she had been becoming fond of in the past days.

If her Jon had his white and her red colours, she’d keep his grey and her black.

Lord Stannis and Ser Davos continued on without them, marching directly toward Lord Stark, who’d be sending his brother back North, and at least a hundred of his men, accompanying Jon, Robb and the Crow. Lady Marya caressed her hair, playing with a few stray tendrils from her long braid. They embraced tightly.

“I wish you’d go with us,” Dany whispered into her chest, her hands holding tight to the plump woman. She breathed in deep, hoping to remember her homely scent and holding tight to the tears that came to her eyes. “I’m so scared, Marya…” Dany whispered, so quietly she hoped Marya wouldn’t hear.

“Oh, my lil’ dragonfly. ” Marya’s voice was strong as it had always been, but there was a softness to it that Dany had yet to witness. Her shoulders shook, her breath hitched. Marya and the boys would go back to their home. Lady Selyse was to part with them at once. Her own remaining guardians would leave in a year’s time. Dany was terrified. “You’re a dragon, now, you know tha’?” Her accent was thick as the emotion in her voice was more and more evident. Tears were flowing freely as she smiled down at Dany.

“Aye,” she smiled, pressing her cheek against the callused hand caressing her .

Marya smirked. “A true Northerner.” Dany chuckled, putting her hands on the woman’s mouth and looking around, checking for any outside listeners.

“Do not let them hear you!” She whispered, giggling like the girl she truly was. “I shall never be accepted otherwise!” Marya smiled widely, taking her hands.

“And what a shame would tha’ be!” They laughed together, coming to a slow halt as Marya held tightly to her hands. Suddenly shy, Dany looked down at the beautiful, hardworking hands, with darker skin and many more scars than her own. Marya touched her chin, two fingers nudging her eyes up. They remained in silence as life passed by, pulling them away from each other. “Promise to remember me?”

How could it ever be possible to forget love?

She licked her lips, squeezing the hand that held hers.

“If my memories were taken away, if I were stripped of who I am, still…” She smiled at her, tears shining in her eyes. “I would never forget you.”

Marya’s lips twitched. “You’ll forget this old woman as soon as you see your pretty boy.”

They laughed and Dany threw herself into her arms, hugging the woman fiercely. She’d miss her big heart and kind smile. Even though they’d met few times in her life, Marya was as important to her as the made-up figure of her blood mother. Dany didn’t know how to cope with a future without her, or the boys who were crying for her in their small cart, or Ser Davos who arrived and waited patiently for them to end their goodbyes.

“Tell them I love each and every one of them,” the Targaryen whispered brokenly into the woman’s ear, closing her eyes as Marya tightened her embrace. “I cannot bear to say goodbye. Not to them.”

“They know.” The answer was simple but impactful, bringing a new round of tears to her eyes. “A loving sister like you can’t be forgotten easily, eh?” Dany withheld a sob, pulling away and stepping back. A chuckle still escaped her as she watched Marya remain behind, Ser Davos putting an arm over her shaking shoulders. Devan was in the cart behind them with his crying siblings, looking at her with huge dark eyes. Dany looked away, turning her back to the image of a family she dreamt of. The little boys’ cries were swallowed by the crowd around them and Dany let her tears fall silently.

She gasped, one hand hastily dragging the tears away as she stared at the cloudy sky. She grabbed the reins of her Silver and moved him away, closer to the gates and away from her past.

Staring at the gates, lost, she waited for her husband and Lord Stannis to lead the way out. Feeling crowded, she mounted her Silver and looked around her. Goodbyes were said and people looked impatient as they readied for leaving. Jon appeared beside her upon a great black mount, staring at her tears for a moment before offering his hand in silent support. She hesitated, a blush coming up her cheeks the same as his as she accepted it. His frown was heavy, but he chose to not speak of it and she thanked him silently for it.

Instead, Jon turned his Stark eyes to the crowd in silent watch and she took the opportunity to admire his profile with a smile.

One of the boys that were always close to either him or her nowadays stepped close to Jon, whispering quietly into his ear when he bent low so the boy could reach him easily. She tightened her hold on his hand, calling for his attention. He looked back at her with a small, but excited, smile.

“Lord Stannis is coming.” Dany grinned back at him.

“I am nervous,” she whispered with a sweet note to her words.

He looked at Siro, who shrugged and moved back into the waiting crowd.

Jon’s answer was quiet and hesitant, a small smile to his lips. “Don’t be, my lady.” He smiled, wide and rare and wholesome. “We are going home.”

Lord Stannis passed them, giving them barely a glance as the gates were opened. He called forward for them to move, but Dany ignored him, focusing on Jon. He nodded back. They looked ahead, going forward.

 

•••

 

As a Southerner, she’d never been welcomed anywhere in Winterfell. In the crypts housing the Kings of Winter millenniums past, that feeling was multiplied.

Cat had been patient, had been silent of her husband’s damned secret. She had let little affect her as the weeks passed and the Targaryen boy would have to go. She’d done what no courtly lady should and pried into her husband’s life and business like a mere spy, trying to find proof or even a clue of what had happened.She had thought her husband did not know how to lie, that he only hid things away from her. She was wrong — so terribly wrong — and she’d be damned if she’d believe in him again.

The dark tunnels swallowed her as she moved forward and forward and forward, searching for the one she knew her husband had taken the Targaryen to in the previous night. What had he been thinking? What was to it that he had dragged the boy down here? Did Ned know they were at high risk? Lord Stannis may have been dubious in his loyalty that first night, but Lord Renly was enamoured with his kingly brother and would claim for the whole family’s head if he got wind of the past Ned so desperately wanted to hide.

She’d given her farewells to their guests, had behaved and performed her duties as was expected of her, and now she stood before the peaceful face of Lyanna Stark. It, the statue, seemed accusing. She pictured Arya looking down at her with judging eyes, telling her she did not belong, that she was no true Stark.

That image, more than anything else, made her both wrathful and full of sorrow.

“You shunned your duty for a _man_.” Speaking to the dead was not something she’d done much or enjoyed at all, but she needed to do this. Catelyn felt herself drowning because of what the girl had done since Brandon had died. And now she knew that nothing should’ve happened if that _girl_ hadn't been a spoiled little brat. “Did you think no other girl ever dreamt of being something else?” Cat took a step forward, the image of Lyanna changing more and more into Arya and Ned and Jon and Benjen and _Brandon…_ “Did you think yourself so special as to be the only one to ever want to be something other than a wife?”

The snap and crack of the lit torches were her only answer, and it only served to fuel her rage. That _girl_ had given herself away to a fairytale, falling prettily on the lap of a dragonspawn sat in a throne mounted on top of corpses upon corpses, the very first at their bloodied feet being those of Cat’s own first love and his father. Cat had denied even her love her maidenhead, couldn’t she do the same? King Robert could be the greatest brute, father to countless bastards as he was, but he was Lyanna’s duty. And oh, how Brandon had spoken of the girl’s spoiled tantrums. It was always ‘I don’t want to marry’ or ‘I don’t want a dress’. It was always ‘I don’t want’, and she’d always have her way with whatever she desired. Lyanna had as many horses as she could, as many sword lessons from her brothers as she wanted, as much freedom as she could ever want in the North.

“And yet, you could not just accept a no,” Catelyn shook her head, lips pressed in deep, deep, disappointment. “You couldn’t stop yourself from getting only what you _wanted_.” She gritted her teeth, staring into those stone eyes that had a resemblance to her Arya. “You wanted and wanted and wanted but never thought—” The lady turned away from the Stark visage silently watching over her, unable to defend the girl it pictured. One hand rose to cover her lips, and she noticed its slight tremble. Fisting it, she let it fall beside her and glared at the silent visage of Lyanna Stark. One finger dug deep into her chest as she spat to it. “We Tully girls never gave ourselves away. We were dutiful!” She gasped for air because even of that she wasn’t sure anymore. What had little Lysa been up to? She did not know, and something inside her refused to. “I let my love go to save _you_! Your own father pledged for _you_ and your brother! Ned proclaimed _war_ for you! We were _worried_ about you!” She paced before her, not once moving her gaze away. Finally, she stepped closer, her words ending with a shrill. “You were our _martyr_!”

How many families torn asunder by this girl’s romance? How many good men gave their limbs and sanity for a girl to become queen? Rickard Stark’s terrible massacre was overshadowed by his own daughter’s _lies_. How many babes left alone for this girl to have her own little prince? What was the price of war? Did she think of it? Did she ever stop to see what common sense made obvious? The man had a _wife_. He had _children_.

How can someone discard a family away like that?

Gasping for breath, Catelyn shook in the cold crypts. The air itself felt heavy, making it hard to breathe. She saw nothing more than the shapeshifting face of Queen Lyanna of House Targaryen. A now _dead_ and never known queen who had done nothing extraordinary in her life other than start a war that brought destruction to the Riverlands again. A lying girl that left only death in the wake of her own happiness. They chose to lose it all while loving like damned fools. All for love, a ruined love that didn’t stop at their own lives, eating at the whole kingdoms and each of their families. All ravaged by what must have been a fool’s desire, an all-consuming feeling that took away their thinking. What else could drive someone so?

“You saw chivalry and an enchanted man, someone better than your intended and _then run away with him_. Didn’t you ever wonder why you were promised? Didn’t you ever think of what’d happen with your family?” She hoped that she could hear her. Cat hoped Lyanna heard her, wherever she was. She hoped she saw her mistakes. She hoped she felt the pain and disgrace her poor decisions had provoked. “A married man, a father of two.” She shook her head. “And then…” Bitter chuckles escaped her, shoulders sagging and eyes closing as she took a step back. “And when you died alone, you still dared to give your boy the same name as that man’s son…” She looked down with a heavy frown. “And you dared to give that boy to Ned…” The bitterness grew sharper, colder as the Winter her husband proclaimed to come. She glared at her innocent figure. “You dared to chain him with promises to protect your Targaryen son.” She held her head high. Her chest felt lighter and lighter as her mind raged with words and accusations, unable to forget the pain that the dead woman she spoke to spread with her youthful devotion to an older man. “Ned made him a Snow.” She pursed her lips, felling petty, but light-hearted for the first time since Ned revealed his secrets. “I am sure you know what that means.”

Turning her back to the statue, Catelyn stepped towards the exit but stopped when she heard the faint sounds of footsteps. The lady froze, staring into the dark tunnels with a growing feeling of dread.

“Ned?” In the silence, no one answered her inquiry but the sound of footsteps, quicker and quieter than before.

Her world fell.

Breathing hard, she lost no time in running out. In those few seconds, her stomach dropped, her heart hammered in her chest. The darkness of the crypt mocked her as if the dead were punishing her for entering grounds where she did not belong. The shadows grabbed at her, caressing her. Her children’s ancestors laughed at her, condemning. The frigid air was pressing, and at the top of the stairs leading back to the courtyard, before the sunlight blinded her, she saw a figure calmingly going out.

All quietened around her. Her vision went pure white, the purest she’d ever seen. In that purity, she saw the fall of dynasties. She saw her heir dead, her daughters stripped of their dignities and her sons chained to greedy men and her husband crowned a traitor. Her vision was filled in red, a dark red that was unmistakable. If that silhouette escaped, she’d lose it all. She would lose it all to her own pride, her own fears.

This was Punishment, and it would be her end.

The contrast — whoever that figure was, it was so _composed_ and sure of its escape — was drastic against her own desperation, running up the stair and holding her dress up so high she had no doubt her thighs could be seen. Catelyn gasped, cried out for it to stop. How much had it heard? How much could it tell? Who would it tell? Catelyn could already see war in their path should someone had really been listening to her. What would Ned say?

_He trusted me! He finally trusted me!_ She could not let that trust be for nothing. She could not betray her family like this.

The way up seemed never-ending, tiring and destroying. Sunlight blinded her, making her fall at the entrance with a cry. Her hands prevented her from falling face first, mud staining her dress. She was sweating, her auburn hair glued to her face. Everything was loud and she ignored the pain to look up, blindly searching for someone.

The faces of the parting crowd met her. Nobles and merchants turning their noses up at her, looking with pity or disgust or curiosity as they moved out of her home. The Lady Stark on her knees, covered in mud and shouting like a madwoman for a ghost that would haunt her dreams for years. She called for it, got up on her feet and searched, asked. She searched for something telling of whoever had listened to her words — _had someone listened to her? —_ but nothing and no one gave away any useful answer.

Her guards had caught sight of her, tried to ask for whatever had caused her harm, but she could not tell them. Not once did she stop looking.

“Mother! Mother!” Sansa’s voice filtered through the fog of her desperation. The world tilted, her mind fragmented and she looked down at her eldest daughter to meet a face that had as much of a Stark as her husband and the statues down the crypt, filled with Tully colouring but the same look as Lyanna Stark once had. The look of a dreamer. “Mother?” She took a step back, startled with the dawning realization of what she had done.

She looked back at the fading crowd, and finally, a familiar face met her stare.

Ramsay Snow looked at her from atop his grey steed, ignoring the chatting whore at his side. His clear eyes disturbing and his face blank. In his eyes, Catelyn finally saw the judgement Lyanna could not show, an answer that her statue could not give in its lacking of life. He tilted his head, eyes raking over her form before a wide grin settled on his lips. The mud covering her form finally registered her mind, and she felt as if it burned every inch of skin it touched. His face was as mocking as ever, elated in seeing her dirtied and humiliating herself like _she_ was the mad one. The bastard nudged his great beast forward and the crowd parted for him, ignoring her hard glare. He disappeared, out towards his master.

She hoped he never came back.

“My lady?”

“Did someone enter the crypts after me?” She finally answered back, breathing hard as she snapped her eyes towards the guard. “Answer me!”

He flinched away from her, gazing at the ground. “No, my lady.”

She looked at the other guards and they shook their heads. Blue eyes begged the sentinels upon the walls, and yet they denied it. None had seen whoever had entered the crypts after her.

Sansa held her sleeve tightly, no doubt worried for her, but Catelyn couldn’t bring himself to look back at her daughter. Moving out of her grip, Cat stepped towards the slowly closing gate. Standing alone, Cat kept eyeing the distancing crowd until the great gate closed, leaving her stranded alone with the fear that the Old Gods and Lyanna Stark had just condemned her for the cruelty she’d given to a dead girl and her son. The lady could not and would not ever tell her husband. Could not tell him what she wasn’t sure of. All she heard were footsteps. All she saw was a silhouette. There was no proof. She couldn’t put that kind of fear into her husband’s mind.

Perhaps she had imagined it all.

 

•••

 

The sky was clear but her heart felt nothing of it.

The Summer felt oppressing. Stifling with its vibrancy, a pretended bliss that swallowed them all in complacency. The environment was uncaring for the sadness in Dany for having to leave behind her family. It was opposite to the storm that raged in her mind, full of longing for her past but also impatient for what it was to come.

With part of her family left behind, they moved forward through the clear early morning, a party of hundreds close behind as they walked the Kingsroad. A few of the ladies from the East moved to give her company and Sarella hurled through them with her red sand steed without a care. Her friend stopped at her right side, a cheeky smirk on her lips and eyes glinting in a way similar to her father. Her steed was a glorious thing, a parting gift from her family since the girl had left her dream behind to follow Dany. It broke the young lady’s heart at the same time that made her deeply suspicious of whatever Doran had planned. It was no secret that they were thick as thieves, but for how much she loved Sarella, Dany knew her friend would turn her back as soon as her family ordered it.

Such was the power of blood.

“There was a ruckus back there. Something involving the Lady Catelyn,” she said at first. Lady Catelyn? Dany bit her lip, unsure of what could’ve happened that would make the unflappable Lady Stark cause a _ruckus_. “Nymeria bolted out of here like she had hellhounds after her,” Sarella sneered, huffing in annoyance. “Didn’t bother to talk at all. She is not a good sister.” Her friend was not being completely truthful with her, she could notice.

“Lady Stark is not so easily scared,” she spoke lightly, gaze moving to the young heir of House Stark talking with a few merchants’ sons in a nearby wheelhouse.

“This time, she was shitting herself, I swear. ‘was searching for someone, covered in mud and white as a sheet.” Sarella shuddered. “She looked absolutely mad like she’d seen a ghost. Or a dragon. Or a witch. Or a demon. Or _worst._ ”

“Funny that you put dragons so low on your list of worries,” she quipped, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. It was baffling that the illustrious lady would act so uncourtly, witnessed by so many in such a critical moment for the House she married into. She had said her tearful goodbyes to her son, Dany had seen it, and had parted with the ladies and lords of remarkable names with perfect poise.

Sarella smirked. “They dead, ‘ve no worry ‘bout them flying lizards.”

She responded in kind. “And ye demons ’re true everyday sights. At least dragons were real.” Dany absolutely did not let her temper and passion for her House’s legacy get to her, focusing on the information her friend shared. “Mayhap she was attacked?” Sarella shrugged, leaning dangerously close to her. Her sand steed was unaffected by her antics, keeping to the path. A true daughter of Oberyn Martell, that one.

“You seem bothered,” the Sand asked, sly and curious as ever. Dany debated telling of her grievances — leaving family behind, anxiety over her castle, what would her people think —but decided to divert her attention elsewhere.

“Not as much as you, I am sure,” she looked at her by the corner of her right eyes. Sarella’s visage remained the same, uncaring and unwilling to show what she truly thought. It made Dany smile in fondness for the girl. “Oldtown has always been your dream.”

She didn’t answer and Dany did not wait for it, knowing that melancholy would be heavy in the girl’s heart through her decision to follow duty. Though she was there as an agent of her Prince, Sarella had always shared Dany’s dream of forging their chains of knowledge. The darker girl had a passion unmatched even by her own father when it came to the unknown. She had always wanted and made the Citadel her goal, not ever ever a dream as Dany had. Her gender was nothing in the face of knowledge, and she had no problem in living as a man to do it so. Since Dany first met her, Sarella had no care if called a male or female.

“There’s still time,” she finally said, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

Dany blinked away her slight shock, smiling — so much her eyes wrinkled — at her friend even if she would not turn to see. “I’ll learn many things, see the world outside of pages and words and even then…”

Hope was a beautiful thing to witness.

“There’s still time,” she completed along with her, making her turn and look at her wide-eyed. Dany smiled again, wider, and Sarella finally chuckled, shaking her head.

“Ah, Daenerys.” Her tone of voice was lighter, genuine. It made Dany calmer to know her friend had finally let her face away, speaking freely without the intent to listen carefully and report. “You are the light in any boy’s life, this I promise you.” The lady bit her lip, tilting her head to stare curiously at the other girl.

“Oh, I thank you, good sir!” Dany laughed at her, not a drop of meanness in the way she exhaled fondness for her.

She rolled her eyes hard, in that way Sarella always did to show how stupid those surrounding her were.

“Don’t be so full of yourself, dragonbreath.” The nickname sparkled fond memories of their times together in Myr when Dany tried as many treats as she could, her breath a mingle of scents at the end of the day that was truly terrifying. Dany waited, patient as ever to listen even as she still chuckled a bit. “But that is not what I meant. What I mean is...” she nodded towards the figure of Dany’s husband ahead of them, speaking with the General Pol, Ser Davos and Ser Aurane. Anguy and Siro were close, with Ramsay and Satin nowhere to be seen since they were still in Winterfell. “That boy should kiss the ground you walk on and worship you.” Sarella turned to her, eyes raking over her form. “In every way possible.”

Dany shook her head, exasperated. 

“He is a dutiful husband,” she allowed that admission.

“And…?” Dany wanted nothing more than to relieve the heavy weight of her worries on Sarella. She wanted to lay down her problems and free herself of all the self-doubt and uncertainty that haunted her. But she was a lady, and she was not alone with those she could trust implicitly. Her eyes sought Lady Melisandre, but no vibrant shade of red caught her attention and it only made Dany feel lonelier.

“And nothing.” She set her jaw, lifted her chin and hoped she did not look as childish as she felt. Sarella hummed beside her, that curious glint in her eye that warned troubled and Dany pursed her lips in slight worry for what it promised. Dany looked the other way, to the distancing castle of Winterfell.

It was then that she saw Ramsay’s figure, coming beside her without noticing, staring unseeingly ahead. Blinking, Dany nudged her Silver closer to him, moving away from the prodding questions of her friend. Sarella threw a knowing look at her back, chuckling loud enough for Dany to hear.

“You were gone for long,” she said in way of greeting him. Ramsay blinked, turning his neck to her slowly. Dany refrained from flinching away from him when his empty eyes finally met hers. Instead, she braved on at his side, looking at him in the eye. Dany blinked. “Is there a problem?”

For a breathless moment, Ramsay stared at her, unseeing and uncaring as he directed his blank eyes ahead. Dany did not look to see what had caught his attention, too entrapped by the diverse emotions that passed through his face. The air felt heavy as he pondered, breathing hard and nostrils flaring and fists tight on his reigns. A dark thing wanted to crawl out of him and swallow everything, and he battled with it tirelessly in the shadows of his eyes. When he smiled at her, eyes wide and teeth showing, it looked like he had eaten alive whatever demons he fought with.

“No. Not one.”

Dany shuddered, and Ramsay sped up, his great grey beast closing in Jon’s space. For that, Ser Davos was unceremonious pushed away by the lad and the man fell back with no complaints. Jon proceeded to furiously whisper with his manservant. Dany observed quietly, nodding to the Ser when he fell back to travel beside her.

“That one is trouble.” A fair warning, she knew, but nothing she didn’t know herself. How Jon could be so close to such a volatile boy, and how even she could get so friendly with him, was a mystery.

“You get used to him,” she replied with a weak defence of her ally. It was him, after all, that told her what Jon wouldn’t. If not for Ramsay, she wouldn’t know much about Catelyn. The boy insisted in either telling her himself or not caring for her presence when Jon was with her.

“Not _too_ used, I hope.” He licked his lips, worry clear in his eyes as she turned to him. “I hope you do not turn to him as often as your husband. I hope you don’t turn at all like your husband did after that boy’s involvement in his life.”

Dany frowned. “I thought you liked Jon.” He had told her so. He had been relieved to see the boy treating her well.

“I do. Or did,” he coughed, looking anywhere but her. Dany shook her head, not understanding his sudden change. She halted her horse, and Davos made the same a bit ahead of her. Looking guilty at her figure. Dany frowned at him, a glare telling him to elaborate. “Hm, you see, five days… five days back, when Jon and some lords went to town…”

She pursed her lips, jerking her reigns so her Silver would resume moving. “I remember.” Ser Davos was quick to follow, falling into step beside her.

“Well, he came back and before their return, Stark’s guard returned with a prisoner of House Targaryen with a crushed finger and knee.” Breathless for a moment, she snapped her gaze to Davos, who looked down at her with sad eyes. She had never heard of a prisoner taken under her House’s name. “The man was taken out of the cells the next morning, but I managed to speak with Ser Rodrik, his uncle.” He nodded to a man who remained close to Robb.

“The master-at-arms?”

“Yes. And the man who cleaned all of the mess Jon and Ramsay did in the short months they stayed in Winterfell these years.” Davos pursed his lips, shaking his head in clear disgust that broke Dany’s heart. His gaze was fixed upon her husband and guard. “Running around Wintertown, destroying property, invading houses, frequenting brothels.” His voice got quieter and more rushed, and Dany listened with wide eyes, even detecting a hint of admiration in the smuggler’s voice. “And the boy, your husband, is prone to have _attacks_ , I hear.”

“ _Attacks?_ ” Dany felt fear crawling up her spine, Joffrey’s damned cackles echoing in her ears. Her mind came up with the disturbing image of green eyes reflected upon Jon’s kind greys, and it made her want to throw up. He knew so much of her, but what did _she_ know about him? He’d always been quiet, always been silent while she poured the most intimate parts of her to him.

“Yes. He can’t stand dirt, is always ordering places clean, walks around like he owns the place. Some houses are cleared when he is in one of his moods, some streets must be emptied. His guards let no one approach and many have seen him holding his own neck as if to choke himself, shaking like a leaf.” Davos shook his head, fidgeting on his mount. He looked sad. “And then there was the vendor he took a beating to. Broke his finger twisted and put a dagger to his knee, and sent him to the dungeons in Castle Black.”

Dany shook her own head desperately, whispering furiously. “Cousin Stannis—”

“Would never let you in danger, I know.”

Still, she would not give up. “Those are only _rumours._ ”

He looked at her with pity. “That is precisely what your cousin said,” he sighed, staring ahead toward Jon. “But, what both of you don’t know, is that every rumour has its streak of truth.” Dany was chilled to the bone, refusing to look at either her friend or her husband, she chose to direct her gaze down, to her Silver’s beautiful mane.

Jon’s kindness couldn’t be a lie.

Looking at his back, distant and ever hesitant to trust her with all of him, Dany feared for her future again.

 

•••

 

Days passed slowly, and slowly it got colder. Summer rain fell hard day in, day out, soaking their horses and the wheelhouses and their clothes. The fires were harder to keep going, and tents went soggy because of the mud. Dany, used to the difficulties of travelling, still hated it all.

Jon was a comfort every cold night they passed together in their tent. Dany was hesitant, fearful of him at times, but his patience and calming brooding presence never seemed to fall into the pit of green madness Ser Davos had her imagine. Though angry and confused, she couldn’t deny his affectionate worry for her. She laid with him, and watched him sleep, sometimes peacefully, sometimes not, but always quiet. She wanted to ask him what he hid, wanted to find out how his mind worked, what made him do whatever he did.

Sometimes, she asked who that prisoner was, but he was always asleep and never answered, so she got up and sat by the fire, her dragon eggs close as she stared at the flames. The closer they got, the more melancholy she felt. Lonely and lost, Dany felt the lack of guidance with glaring intensity. Lady Melisandre was now always close to another Red Priestess that had accompanied the province lord from Yi Ti, Lord Chai. Lord Stannis was focused on maintaining the security of the party, Ser Davos soon behind and Jon spent the day with him, sullen and brooding over the fact he didn’t get to lead the way to his own home.

The company amongst the guests was aplenty and just as familiar as her, but she had no patience to deal with Cousin Renly’s meaningless compliments, Sarella’s continuous attempts at proving herself as a spy to her family, or Lady Brienne’s sullenness for Ser Loras’ parting home. She had Lord Aurane and Ser Terrence at her side, loyal guards since her earliest memories that never strayed far, but she felt no need to hear their hesitancy in calling her Princess every time they directed her their words.

At night, all she had to do before bed was sit and eat and mingle with more and more guests. A Lorathi mistress, a Prince from Pentos or a Minister from wherever the hell, a rich merchant or a sailor from faraway lands. Martial specialists flaunting their prowess or timid guards that barely spoke their own languages, much more the common tongue. Any Myrish was arrogant when speaking with her, — which she and Sarella complained often — taunting their importance in the building of her castle. Her own baggage was stored and to mess with it would only make a chaos and slow them down, which Dany absolutely didn’t want.

She wanted to see her new home.

One such boring night, when the sky was clear of looming clouds and had yet a fair amount of sunlight, Dany set by a fire pit in the opening, looking at the Cook slowly making a deliciously smelling stew of lamb and mushrooms. Dany was already irritable with her ever-growing boredom, and the Cook had refused to let her help or have a taste, so, she was ready to blow up in frustration.

Huffing out angrily, she blew a strand of hair out of her face, getting up and stomping out of the cooking area. People were setting camp close to their tents or carts or wheelhouses, their own fire pits ablaze and their own diners preparing. She walked past them, uncaring for the petulant pout in her lips as she headed for the flower field they were camping next to.

Lord Aurane accompanied her without trouble, entering the lavender field behind her. She saw a dark figure ahead with the black cloak and dressing similar to her husband’s and, as he was currently meeting with Ramsay, she figured it probably was one of his personal guards. Dany ran ahead, busting out into the small clearing where the dark figure stood with a torch in hand over a small thin woman in red sitting on the muddled ground. Lord Aurane called for caution, and Dany heard him at first when the Yi Tish man finally looked at her with dark eyes. She had seen him many times with the other Red Priestess. Dany looked at the woman and finally registered the small animal she was cradling at her lap. She could hear the woman’s faint murmurings as she stroke the cat. Curiosity spiked and she braved forward regardless of her guard’s warnings.

The man observed her quietly, dismissing her quickly when she kneeled beside the woman — who stopped chanting once she approached — so he could favour Lord Aurane with his glare. The Bastard of the Driftmark responded to the silent warning with a glare of his own.

Dany ignored them to look at the small animal, a black feline with a severely twisted paw, whining and hissing at the Yi Tish priestess caressing his dark fur.

“A shadowcat,” the woman said, never taking her eyes off of it. “It was born defected and its mother left it behind,” Finally, the woman looked up to meet Dany’s gaze. In the faint light allowed by the sun and aided by their torch, Dany sad the black pits the woman had for eyes. From her, Dany felt nothing. The woman had a passiveness in her that was deep and haunting, different from her silent companion, she seemed to have no life left in her, no emotion at all. “It will die soon.”

“Not if you take care of it,” she was quick to answer, just as quietly but with a streak of passion that was lacking in the other. The woman blinked, surprise fleeting and fragile as petals before a false smile settled upon her lips.

“But I do not care for it.”

Dany frowned at her, lifting one angry eyebrow. “Then what are you doing?” The woman smiled again, as empty as before. She took the kitten from her lap, laying it on the ground as she got up on her feet.

“Blessing it.” She stared at it, uncaring. Dany didn’t like it, not one bit. The woman felt wrong, acted wrong. Everything about her was fading and empty, like a mere puppet controlled by strings. “The Lord of Light appreciates every sacrifice, even a natural and simplified one as this one’s death.” She smiled, serenely, as if every word coming out of her mouth wasn’t so utterly wrong. Dany was used to such words coming from Lady Melisandre, and they fell flat to her. “Now, even a useless thing such as this will have a purpose in its end. Fierce blood of such a prime specimen, and a newborn at that.” Her eyes moved back to the cat and she finished her chanting. “Cast your Light upon us, for the Night is full of terrors.” She pulled the torch from the man’s grip and in one smooth movement set fire to the small kitten.

Flinching away from the woman, Dany screamed. Her terrified gaze didn’t stray from the little kitten as it screeched in pain. The man beside the priestess grimaced, looking away from them, making a pained face when the woman started some sort of prayer. Lord Aurane’s hands were almost upon her shoulders when Dany threw herself to the ground, her long skirts gathered in hands as she desperately tried to smother the flames away. The flames were quick to catch on the thing’s small body, burning away the fur from its tail to its chest. Its skin smelled like cooked meat, and Dany wanted to retch and cry and _burn the woman for doing such a thing_.

Lady Melisandre’s talk of sacrifices were always disgusting and barbaric, things of darkness and inhumanity that served only to destroy in the name of their belief, but Dany had never witnessed any of such acts. Stannis’ lady wife followed diligently to whatever the woman said, and Dany knew that, in an abstract way, they still did one sacrifice or another whenever Lord Stannis’ duties pulled him out of their vicinity. Now she knew what they did; it was no rumour to scare her away from the Red Woman, no Ser Davos complaining of the wrong things she did like it was petty of him. The woman who she loved so much was the same as the empty witch praying over death.

“Oh, what a pity,” the woman said, true disappointment in her voice. Dany smothered the flames that caught on her dress with her own hands, not feeling the heat at all. “It was a blessing for you, Princess.”

Dany glared at her, getting up on her feet and cradling the little thing close to her chest, uncaring for the blood trailing down her hands. Lord Aurane stepped closer, drawing his sword as he pushed her back. Dany wanted to say many things, wanted to have the woman away and to never set sight upon her again. But what power did she have when she owed the woman’s apparent Lord? The same way Lady Melisandre followed Lord Stannis and Lady Selyse, this woman followed Lord Chai, one of their main investors. Suddenly, Jon’s promise of paying every debt had much less to do with honour than she had first believed.

_They_ were the ones trapped by strings, puppets to the puppeteers that had built their home. They had to cut those ties as fast as possible.

With that in mind, Dany was quick to put her hand on Lord Aurane, stopping him from pointing his sword at the people from an entirely different country that were their esteemed guests. Dany wanted to run away from there, put them down as quick as her guard wished, _but she could not_.

“In our kingdoms,” her voice trembled as much as any child's would, showing her image like nothing else would. Dany hated it, hated that she displayed to them how scared she was. “It… It is forbidden.” The shadow cat mewled in her hands, breathing hard and crying in pain. She would not cry. She would not cry. “Sacrifices such as these…” She shook her head, fury making her hiss out her last words.

She hated them. They should die for their cruelty. _What if she had deemed this kitten not enough for sacrifice?_

“You cannot do it.” She hugged it close to her chest, its twisted little paw pushing at her heaving chest. “Not _here._ ” She bit her tongue, frowning at them. “I’ll have words with your lord for your deeds and you will be punished accordingly. Understood?”

“Yes,” the man spoke for the first time, relief evident in his tone as he took the torch from the priestess’ hand. He gripped her arm, hard, already turning the still smiling woman away. “Forgive our grave mistake, Princess.” And with that, they were gone into the tall lavender field, heading to their own camp.

As soon as they were out of sight, Dany gasped and fell to her knees. Heaving for breath, she stared at the little kitten in her bloody hands. It was in terrible shape, barely capable of keeping its eyes open. There was just enough sunlight for her to see it was a little male kitten.

“Sh, shhhh...” She tried to reassure it as it cried, weaker and weaker. She could feel its fragile bones in her hands, under the weak muscle and barely any fat. She could feel its flesh, with the same texture as the cooked meat she liked so under her hands. How had it burned so much so quickly? Panicked, a dry sob escaped her as Lord Aurane fell at her side, hands caressing her head and cheeks and arms as he tried to pry the little thing away from her. She didn’t let him, scrambling to her feet.

“My Lord,” Dany ordered, blinking away the tears and trying her best to regulate her breathing. She adjusted her hold onto the little cat, putting him to her chest, just under her chin. His tiny claws dug into her skin with desperation, and the oily scent coming from whatever tuff of fur that was left on his head made her want to curl up around it and protect it from all bad in their world. She pressed her cheek to his little head, closing her eyes and wishing the pain away. “We need… We…” Growling in frustration, she let a few tears escape as she cradled the little one close to her, eyes narrowed to where the couple had disappeared

“Yes, Your Grace.” In the face of their own panic, he did not care for propriety. He scooped her up like she weighed nothing, moving into the flower field through a different path from the one they came. She could see the black and red of her wheelhouse in the distance and the camp in a panic, no doubt they had heard her scream. The pair was seen before coming out of the field and Jon was the first to meet them. But yet her friend didn’t stop, moving into camp and causing a ruckus amongst Stark, Baratheon and Targaryen parties. He put her on the ground at her request and Dany ran to her wheelhouse, ignoring the inquiries of the people around her.

Inside her wheelhouse, Doreah was reading a book to her two other handmaidens and they snapped in attention at her entrance. Dany ignored their cries and questions at seeing her so dishevelled and bloodied, kneeling next to the low table in the middle of the sitting area, pushing everything that was on top of it away as she laid the kitten carefully on it.

The girls gasped, kneeling with her and staring at the little one. Dany was still heaving for breath when she sent them away, to bring in supplies and ask for a willing healer. They immediately protested, saying they could help, putting hands on her shoulders and caressing her head but she flinched away from them and ordered for them to leave her at once.

They looked sadder and worried than angry as they left, but Dany barely registered that.Dany did not wait for them to close the door and she was already moving, getting her luxury sheets and towels, making a little bed for the kitten and then wetting a small piece of soft cloth to clean his wounds. The burnt was ugly, and his little body shook entirely with his difficulty to keep breathing. Every time she touched his skin, he cried out pitifully. His twisted little paw, the only one untouched by fire, twitched and contorted. Dany did not know how to heal him, did not know how to make the pain go away. Suddenly feeling alone, with a dying kitten in front of her in desperate need of help, Dany was lost again. 

She let her head fall with a thud on the table, gasping and sobbing silently as the pitiful beast meowed and whined again and again. She couldn’t bear it anymore, and while she begged him to stop,she cupped her hands on her ears like a coward. Yet, she could hear the shadowcat, she could hear her husband and cousin Stannis screaming outside, she could hear the chatter and she could hear it all still.

She did not know what to do.

A knock on the door made her flinch, and she told them to leave her if they couldn’t help. The kitten mewled, weak but insistent, and she stared at him through her lashes. The little thing had crawled from its bed, heading for her with closed eyes. Just as Dany lifted her head, he bumped her nose, nuzzling into her. Her sobbing receded, allowing a small chuckle to come out of her mouth. She scratched his ears, pulling the sheets closer to him, lifting his little body again so he’d rest on them.

They, whoever they were, knocked again. This time, it was more forceful and it followed with Ramsay’s voice.

“Oi! Milady! You had a shitty day, very well, understandable, my condolences.” She hiccuped, hurt and angry. “But we actually have someone to help you as you asked, so stop being a pussy and—” He was interrupted, rather abruptly, by a great bang. His scream of pain and indignant screaming of Jon’s title told her her husband was to blame for punishing the older boy for his insolence.

Staring at the little being fighting hard to survive in front of her, Dany decided it was time for her to stop acting like a spoiled brat. This was not about her. She had saved the damned cat, she should do something about it.

She would care for it.

She opened the door and stood tall before them. The entire main camp seemed to be waiting there, falling silent when she stepped out. Tired, she looked at Ramsay on the ground, and to Jon standing next to him with clenched fists, Lord Stannis closest to the wheelhouse with Ser Davos, and all the others until her eyes fell upon Lady Melisandre, at the back of the waiting crowd.

Deep disgust and uncontrollable rage filled her at once. In her throat, words upon words of accusations and hate boiled, ready to spill and burn the priestess as she had burnt her countless victims. Lady Selyse had once begged for human sacrifice, Lady Melisandre had once said a larger sacrifice was needed for Dany’s good fortune. Then, she had not truly grasped what they meant, what they wanted. She had never seen such acts, had never seen such vile things done to another. They had been only words, and words were wind and ink.

_You needed to see it to know._

“A red priestess,” she started, voice rough but loud enough for them to hear. “Tried to perform a sacrifice to her Lord of Light using a wild shadowcat cub abandoned in the flower fields.” There was a strong reaction from the crowd, some gasped and others were already turning to the Red Woman that Dany considered family. “As the priestess to one of our esteemed guests and investors,” she looked pointedly at Jon, and he nodded grimly in understanding at her following words. “I dutifully informed them that such practices are illegal in our home, and they apologized accordingly.” That wasn’t a whole truth, but Dany did not wish to revisit them to make it so. “I was, as expected, shocked and…” Dany lost her words then, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Her chin lowered and she did not look up. Strength left her, and all she felt was worry and fatigue. Still, the little one needed help. “Who among you can aid the kitten?”

“Me, milady.” Siro stepped forward from his place beside Jon, a basket already in hands., Irri fidgeting beside him holding other another basket full of other supplies. “I asked Ramsay to call upon you to allow my entrance, but he was not the most…” The boy with kind green eyes, nothing like the poisonous thing that haunted her, glared at the guard slowly getting up from the ground.

“Leave it, Siro,” Jon ordered quietly, closing his eyes and moving to drag Ramsay away by the collar of his vest. “Help your lady.”

Dany smiled at Siro, nodding to the older boy to enter after her. The crowd dispersed, only Lord Stannis and Ser Davos remaining. The smuggler glared, looking between her and Jon’s servant with worry. Dany pursed her lips, a hard frown upon her brow as her gaze fell back upon the Red Woman.

Her mind and heart battled, each proclaiming different things that resonated with her. She wanted to throw herself in Melisandre’s arms and beg for her to deny ever participating in the sacrifices, she wanted the Red Priestess gone and away from what was to be her home. She wanted to discover her own castle with one of the people she trusted most in the world beside her, she wanted the Red Woman away from everything she loved. Who stood before her?

_The price for the truth was high indeed, it took whom I love most from me without ever spilling their blood._

“Lady Melisandre—” The words stuck on her throat, and she hated that the woman still looked at her with all the pride and love and reverence as she always did, smiling as if to say _go ahead, I believe in you._ “In the morn, please, turn back and march to your Lady Selyse.” Her eyes stung again, but no tears were left for her to cry. Melisandre lifted hers, a smirk on her lips that did not hide the sadness in her gaze. Dany bit her lip, turning her eyes away and closing the door behind her. Irri stood beside her with worried eyes glued to her small figure, but Dany chose to ignore her, focusing on what mattered.

“Oh, poor thing.” The boy was already at it, kneeling by the table. Dany followed him quietly, watching as he cleaned the wounds and inspected the little one. He prodded the creature’s defected paw, prodded its eyes and head while passing salves and cleaning his remaining fur from the flammable oils the woman must have rubbed on him.

“Will he survive?” she remembered asking at the end, holding the kitten close.

Siro had taken his time, staring at the little animal with pity.

His final answer was “No,” and the little thing was dead by sunrise.

 

 

•••

 

She slept in her own tent since then.

Lady Melisandre was sent back to Lady Selyse and Dany was left alone with no mother figure to guide her. Jon tried to be closer, tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away. Ser Davos congratulated her on distancing herself, and she distanced herself from him in return. Lord Stannis watched it all in stern seclusion.

Again, and more acutely than ever, Dany felt lost. The days looked brighter each day that passed. The crisp scent of rain had refreshed the woods. The road was not the best, but the scenario was inspiring. The harsh North had a wilderness to it that fit. Wildlife lived in such with the surroundings touched by the First Men. And even in such a picturesque scene, with everything to lull her into peace, Dany had night terrors every time she closed her eyes.

In her mind, instead of her Father, the Mad King’s place was taken by Lady Melisandre, red-haired and red-eyed, chanting as her subjects burned while holding a newborn Dany to her bosom. In her dreams, Lady Marya, Lord Stannis, Ser Davos and Jon were always there, screaming terribly as the flames consumed their bodies.

Sometimes, it was she that burned and Jon tried to reach her, a rope around his neck stopping him from saving her as he suffocated himself. Sometimes, in Jon’s place, it was Lord Stannis, and he always abandoned her and walked back to Lady Melisandre’s side. People chanted and shadowcats roamed the shadows of the Iron Throne, waiting and watching. The Iron Throne was as grotesque as ever but made of gold. The flames reflected upon it were a sickening shade of green eating everything it touched.

Dany would wake, alone in her tent, and would not cry. She’d curl up and watch the flames from her bed, the soft breathing of her handmaids and the crackling of the fire quiet and never-ending, unlike the screaming fires of her dreams. And for the rest of the night, she would remain in the same position, cold and alone and scared.

One night, when they had just entered the New Gift, two days away from their destination, Dany decided to finally get up on the bed. She grabbed a [blue cloak](https://br.pinterest.com/pin/349240146085706602/) with a large hood, fastening it around her neck and putting on her boots before leaving the tent. Outside, she breathed out, steam curling around her face in a spellbinding way that still fascinated her. Beside her tent was Jon’s, and it was dark inside. Her husband was asleep, as she wished she could be. The dark circles under her eyes were more evident as time passed, and Doreah, who applied her face paint every day now, was getting more worried. Dany feared she’d go telling Jon.

And it always came down to people telling him things, wasn’t it? Jon knew everything that happened around him, and Dany knew not where to start to know the same.

Shaking her head, Dany tried to disperse such thoughts, knowing they were not completely true. She knew what to do, she was just… she never had to do it on her own. Sighing, she moved her gaze away, falling onto the group huddled in front of their tents around a small fire with a cooking pot on it. Moving closer, she could see Ramsay’s bundled up form, engulfed by at least three pelts. Satin was beside him, sitting close with a bowl and an amused smile on his lips even as he frowned worryingly at the Snow’s shaking form.

Siro was by the fire, mixing whatever was in that pot as Anguy observed them, his back to Dany. There was an empty seat beside him. Dany sat on it, uncaring of Ramsay’s glares. She nodded back to them, hugging her cloak close.

“What is wrong, Ramsay?”

“Fucking nothing!” She lifted an eyebrow and he smiled back.

Satin sighed, shaking his head at him, giving the bowl to Siro. The green-eyed guard had an exasperated expression on his face as he filled the bowl and another. He gave one to Satin and the other to Anguy. “He has a cold, my lady, and as the idiot he is—” Siro ignored said one’s nasally threat, getting another bowl from a small pile basked beside him. “He refuses to rest in a tent, or somewhere warm, or anywhere away from my lord and lady. Would you like a bit of warm stew, my lady? It must be terribly cold for you.”

“No meat, please.” He didn’t question her request, smiling softly in understanding. “And a cold is not something to be trifled with, Ramsay.” She played with the glinting frost on the grass beneath her feet. “Especially in such climates.”

“He is a sturdy dog, my lady,” Satin replied, serene as the clear night, uncaring for the brewing storm glaring daggers beside him. “Idiot would never let some cold kill him before milord lost his patience and did it himself.” With that, Ramsay barreled into his side, pushing him to the ground.

Dany accepted the bowl from the quiet healer, bringing it to her lips and humming in appreciation to the warmth it offered. The cold did not affect her as much as the other guests or members of her party, but she was a bit chilled. She observed the two older boys fighting in numb fascination as she ate. Though the two were rolling around on the frosted grass, neither made noise. They were like fighting shadows, quiet when they fought and moved. Siro told them to stop at once, but she chose to let them be regardless of the worry that still lingered for the sick guard.

She focused her attention on the Dornish man beside her, the older of the small group. His hair was long, as all of the others but Ramsay's were. He had the tanned skin of the Dornish, but it was paler than the ones that lived there still. Black hair and blue eyes stared at the flames in front of them with apathy, his bow resting at his side with a quiver strapped to his right leg, which he left extended in front of him. Dany moved her gaze to the fighting boys again.

“I am told we have a prisoner.” The guard gave no evidence to be listening, but she knew he was. Anguy was diligent to his lord and lady and, though quiet, had never denied or dismissed her, the handful times they interacted. “A vendor was caught in Wintertown, and Jon…” she continued with a haunting tune, dissecting the heaving Snow kneeled on the grass, Satin massaging his back in a consolation that went unappreciated. “Jon broke his finger.” She pursed her lips, eyes falling to her bowl. “Put a knife to his knee _._ ”

The fire crackled, and Anguy remained quiet. She looked at him, begging silently for an answer. “House Targaryen took a prisoner from Wintertown, the man had a destroyed finger and knee, I was never informed of anything.” She turned to him, voice going harder and demanding. “Tell me the truth.” He took a sip from his bowl, eyes pensive. “Why has Jon done this? Why would he be so cruel and ruthless and…” her voice trembled and she looked away, pained. “Was he lying this whole time? Is he going to do this again to…” She could not finish the phrase. Not when she didn’t know exactly what she’d have to fear for him.

And that made everything much more frightful.

“Siro met Lord Jon at the Neck, ya know?” Finally, he said something, but not what she wanted. Still, she waited as he had waited for her, listening. “Crazy crannogman has more poison than a fucking viper and a scorpion’s spawn. Ramsay said he always put Lord Jon to shame when they fought, using poison, attacking his back with whatever the hell he had. In milord’s words, he has shitty honour.” She smirked, thought that would surely make Jon rather sore. “Took them, Ramsay and milord, to hunt one day. Got all the game alone and let them stuck into his net, cut them down when he was done and Ramsay jumped on ‘im, like he does,” he huffed, shaking his head when she laughed freely. “Milord threw a dagger at ‘im and the fucker caught it with one hand.” That seemed like something Ramsay would do. “Cut his fucking fingers, bloodied everything and Siro there had to patch ‘im up for the first time while milord panicked.” He nodded toward the boy sitting by the fire, now patching up Satin and chiding both. 

They looked chagrined. Ramsay had a special constipated face, with snot and blood going down his nose while he shook like a leaf so much his teeth clattered. Satin sat daintily as if he did not feel the pain of the slowly swelling left side of his face and the cut on his brow.

“They come back, and myself was at the deck waiting for those fuckers,” he snorted, rolling his blue eyes and meeting her gaze with a deadpan. “Siro had found some berries, Ramsay challenged me to eat them, we did, got dizzy and fell into the fucking swamp.” He chuckled, shaking his head. Dany slapped her hand over her mouth, trying to hold back her giggle in vain. “They, Siro and milord that is, idiots, jumped into the water and had to drag our stupid asses out, bu’ there were fucking lizard-lions coming at us and fucking Greywater Watch was already floating. We escaped by luck, I tell ya. If that weird Reed heir hadn’t called the guards we’d be fucking dead because of those two and their berries.”

Dany couldn’t hold herself anymore, throwing her head back and laughing loudly. She laughed until she couldn’t, gasping and sweeping at her eyes. She was still chuckling when he continued, looking at the night sky with a pensive gaze. “Does that sound like someone who’d hurt ye?” She sobered, looking up at him. He breathed out, making steam rise to the skies in those fascinating puffs. “Lord Jon is a good lad, I’ve know ‘im since he was a small tyke.” He pursed his lips, looking at her by the corner of his eye. Dany nodded at him, wanting him to continue even if what he had to say could be called insubordination. “But Ramsay, he is not very good for the lord, makes ‘im impulsive.” He looked at his fellow guards, now all eating quietly while Ramsay complained to them. “But not a monster. Lord Jon knows what he does.We’ve done some crazy and unforgivable sins, may the Seven forgive us,” he nodded. “But not for the disgrace of good folk, everything he ordered was for our good. Your good.” He narrowed his eyes, looking at the ground with a sigh. “He’s got his own shit to deal with, and those rumours always paint ‘im like he is a terror. He don’t like it, no.” He looked at her, nodding back to Jon’s tent. “So, I’d tell you that you should get the story from ‘im, milady, instead of trying to pry and listen to rumours.”

Thoughtfully gazing at her now empty bowl, Dany nodded at his words. Anguy got up, bowing to her and moving to his little group. He slapped the back of Ramsay’s head, uncaring of the boy’s sharp words of distaste. Dany followed him, offering the bowl back to Siro with a small thanks before returning to her own tent.

She had much to think about.

 

•••

 

They diverged from the Kingsroad on a rainy morning.

The plan was to cover as much ground as possible until early noon, where they would camp for a few hours and proceed late into the night, arriving at sunrise.

The party was ablaze with expectation. Their eyes were all turned towards the faraway mountains that they all now knew held riches. A glimpse of the illustrious city Jon had described so passionately was vigorously sought out as they strained their sight for it. Jon had run ahead and returned many times, vibrating with energy. His eyes moved back to meet hers every so often, looking nervous and anxious. Ramsay couldn’t seem to shut up, speaking without end about how he ‘took care’ of the city and how much beloved he was and how much beautiful it was, and on and on.

Lady Brienne and Sarella were close to her, Ser Gallan and Lord Renly mounting side by side not much behind. The road was new, a clear path that had carefully manicured grass at its limits and a smooth ground. Magister Illyrio was quick to congratulate Jon in his forward thinking for investing on the road they would take, and she could see many who were impressed by the simple task. Despite their currently sour mood, Dany felt pride for him. Robb was close to Jon, not ever stopping his questions as Lord Howland Reed accompanied them as quiet as he had been for the entire trip.

Many more roamed around them, curious about what the horizon promised. Dany wished they were not.

_Alone, alone, alone: I am alone._

Though there was a crowd around her, there wasn’t… she could not feel any of the security she was used to. It felt like King’s Landing and her hands couldn’t stop shaking for it. Lord Stannis was there, sure, and Ser Davos was present this time, but…

She was a grown woman, ready to take her own household, and she had never been alone before. Never with such duties resting so heavily over her. And now…

Taking a deep, deep sigh, Dany tried to focus on other things.

Jon looked vastly different from herself, overwhelmed with the attention focused on him. Lord Stannis was never far from him, neither were Ser Davos and many others. He looked contrite and took many runs ahead and back. He must’ve been angry with how he was being treated, after so long of dealing with things himself.

As nighttime arrived and the noon passed, Jon insisted they kept going. Lord Stannis and others doubted him, but Anguy spoke out of turn to advise them to trust his lord. As the older of the group, his words were heard, which made Jon sullen again. Sarella laughed at his expense at her side, but Dany only watched.

The sky was dark and the moonlight was plenty, but guests were worried and uneasy moving in the dark. Jon was relentless in moving forward, though. Suddenly, he bolted forward on his mount, his torch illuminating the path enough for them to see him go up a long hill. The way was long, and he stopped at the top, staring out quietly. He remained with his back to them until they were closer. He looked back when his own small group reached him and called for her.

Dany blinked, surprised. Lady Brienne nudged her side and she stared at her friend with wide eyes. The low light coming from the various flames danced on her face and in her sapphire eyes, and Dany found the courage to follow to his call. She bolted up the hill, passing the very first guard that lead the way with a Targaryen banner in hand. Jon watched her with eyes that shone with life under the moonlight, shining silver and as human as ever. Dany came to a stop beside him, never straying her gaze until something in the corner of the eye caught her attention. Turning her gaze away from him when he smiled wide, Dany gasped.

There, on the horizon, sat by the mountains, was a circle of light resting amongst shadows. A castle rose high above the tree-line, looming and indistinguishable in the distance. Towers could be seen forming a giant wall that she could not see ending around the high structure, each had a great fire pit inside that made the place shine brightly in the dark, unmistakable even from atop a hill. The light had such intensity in the dark, she could see the beams going up in the sky, fading into the clouds. Behind her, she could hear gasps of delight and surprise, but nothing could make her turn away from the image that rested so far from her.

She could not distinguish colours, or forms, or anything more in the dark, but that crown that rested at the mountain range’s feet, surrounded by what probably was lush wildlife, was _hers_.

She took in the view, soaking up in its glory like she depended on it. Like her whole being breathed its sight and turned it into the very air that filled her lungs. She felt as if she could reach with her hand and cradle it close to her chest, above her heart, and nurse it alive. The sky, the mountains,the forest and the very ground her Silver stood upon; it was all hers to care for. There lived her people, there stood what would be their legacy. All the pain, and nightmares and all that she went through in her life were for this. She resented it once, she tried to forget it many times, and now she loved it and treasured like the salvation it had become for her.

The Prince, the Red Priestess, the Queen and the King… all of them turned meaningless memories, ashes that would not steal or harm what she had ahead of her. The past was behind her, lived and fulfilled, not ever to be forgotten, but ready to be left behind in favour of what she could build for the future. She was Lady of Queenscrown, Lady of this land, and it depended on her, relied on her mind and hands.

Again, Jon took her hand. And she looked back at him with eyes glinting with happiness to meet his own. He squeezed her hand, quiet and supportive and simply _Jon._ She beamed, wide and free and happy, and he answered back with a rare grin of his own. She jumped from Silver, and he got down from his own black mount. Without pomp, Dany sat there, on the road, dirtying her skirts so she could admire the vision that was ahead of her. Jon crouched beside her, looking out at what was theirs with the same appreciation and awe as Dany, even though it was him who brought her to such a vision. Behind them, someone took their horses, servants started mounting the camp and people walked away, uncaring for the distant glimpse of their destiny.

“It’s prettier at sunset,” he whispered, and she did not bother to turn to him.

“Is it?” Her heart hammered in her chest, confused and hurt and scared of confronting him as she should. She did not wish to destroy their quest for peace, but how could they truly be equals if she was afraid of confrontation?

“I…” he sighed, letting his head fall forward. Dany gulped and waited. “I wanted to show you, but we were too late.” She pressed her lips together and bit her cheek to stop herself from screaming at his face despite his sweet words. _Why won’t you tell me? Why won’t you tell me, Jon?_ “When the sun sets, the white would reflect light on the lake, and then the glass roof…” Though she was not looking directly at him, she saw how his face was soft and peaceful. Dany wondered where was the practicality in having any building with a glass roof in the North, but her heart longed to see the vision he couldn’t put into words. Jon put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it softly. “I hope you love it as much as I do. I just…” he sighed again, placing a kiss on the crown of her hair. “I am nervous,” he began, hesitant. “You are the only one that I truly, fully want to look at Queenscrown and fall in love with it as much as I have.”

Dany blinked. “And are there others to impress?”

He chuckled, breathless. “We do have debts to pay and guests to impress.”

_I just want you to be honest with me._

“I am aware.” She turned to look up at him with a hard glint in her eyes that she knows he lost, focused as he was to look into the distance. “I wish we could just be done with them.”

He nodded, with that cold look on his face again. His eyes were wild and his fists were clenched tight. “I’ve talked with Lord Chai, he hardly seemed worried for his subjects’ actions… That woman, she was a Red Priestess…” She breathed, calm despite her inner struggles. His intent was obvious and she felt bittersweet amusement for he knew her too well by now. So well that her ordering of _her_ Red Priestess away was not dismissed as simple for him.

“I knew,” she started, quiet and distressed still, with him and Mel and what the morning held for them. “I knew of sacrifices. I knew they happened, that they were wanted.” Jon crouched down by her, his boots firmly planted on the road, perfectly balanced as he gave her his attention. “Mel… Mel was my mother.” The admission was acid in her mouth. To call such a woman a mother was to defile the title, and it hurt even more so that Dany was incapable of _not_ thinking of the Red Priestess in another way. “She was…She, and Cousin Stannis, and Ser Davos, and later on, Marya…” She closed her eyes, an ache that brought burning suffering to her heart. 

“I have no family,” she breathed out, shaken. “No family but what I built to myself, and I lost both women that were the only mothers I had in a single week.” She looked at him dead in the eye, shoulders falling as she tilted her head with a wry smile on her lips. “And one of them was to my own ignorance, and disgust-” she returned her gaze ahead, dry eyes lost in the distance. “And because of that, I now hate that I love her. So deeply, unconditionally, irrevocably, completely love her because she _is_ my mother.” She lifted her chin, if only for a semblance of confidence. “But I need to forget it, for what does that make of me, if my love is given so freely to a woman of such madness? If what little of a family I have is a terrible witch who believes in terrible things such as…as _burning_ ,” she curled her lips, an unsettling feeling in her stomach. “And sacrificing people to… for…” She couldn’t tell him of the Chosen One. Of the Princess that Was Promised. _I cannot._

Once more, he took one of her hands to comfort her. He stroked her skin with rough fingertips, lacing their fingers together and squeezing hard. “Then you will forget her?”

She shuddered and nodded, breathing out and watching the steam disappear.

“Yes,” she would forget her like she did her blood father and his madness like she did the Prince and his senseless cruelty, the Queen and her bitterness, the King and his hate. Her Summer memories were now forever tainted with the image of burning beings and sacrifices, all in the name of Daenerys Targaryen. “I will forget her.”

They watched the sky turn black, and the mantle of stars shine through the darkness with a light that enchanted, gleaming beautifully behind the mountain range. 

“That woman won’t come close to you again, Daenerys.” Solemn, absolute. He believed every word he uttered. But to what woman he referred? The unknown Red Priestess they could not touch, or the woman Dany now hated as much as she loved? “This I promise you.”

“Thank you.” She took a deep breath and looked at him in his eyes. “But I shall be fine.”

He looked away from her, staring out towards their growing home with a frown.

“I lost my father a long time ago, in a way,” Dany remained still, not wanting to scare him into silence. “We… Our ideas do not match, and he tried to change me with all he had,” he said with a scoff. “He had been reluctant after I decided to not kill Ramsay, for what he had done to Theon.” She did not know of the story behind his words, but she knew how scared the Greyjoy had been in the presence of the other bastard. “Theon does not know it. He doesn’t… He doesn’t know I…” he breathed out. “I took pity on Ramsay. He had been sent to me as a tool, and he wanted to die to destroy every plan his father must’ve had. But in doing it, killing him… Father saw only a punishment to be given, and I a provocation that would cost us much, for Lord Bolton would use his bastard’s death against us at his first chance.” He sighed, taking a tiny rock on the road and throwing down the hill. “From that day on, my Father thought much less of me, because Ramsay’s debt to me made him no less than a debt servant, but a living one that could not be a slight to House Bolton if I treated him right.”

“My Father pardoned him, officially, but it was me truly, and I think part of Lord Stark hated me for it. And part of me… I don’t understand him.” He lowered his chin, heavy frown and confused stare glaring down as if the dirt road would have an answer. Despite the strain she could see the position gave him, Jon did not sit down. “He doesn’t see what I do, and he fears what I see. _Honour._ ” He looked up, a hard glint in his eyes. “Commands him, rules over his mind and makes him blind. I…” He gulped, moving his face away from her and whispering so quietly she almost didn’t hear. “I do not wish to live like him, but I hate it that I can’t be _honourable_ and _good_ in his eyes.”

Dany knew how hard it was for him to say so much. Jon had not always been talkative, but here he was, sharing as much as she did because he wanted to comfort her. He wanted her to feel better, and for long she had pushed him away since Ser Davos’ words. Jon told her much, but not what she longed for. _What more do you have to say, Jon Snow_? She squeezed his hand one last time before turning away.

“I think…” She was afraid, but she could not back down and wait meekly. There was much more to Jon Snow that he hadn’t told her, and she had no spies to aid her in knowing every bit of his life before they met. Anguy had given council, as had Ser Davos. She had listened and still felt lost. “I think there is much you don’t tell, Jon Snow.” He tensed beside her, but she stared forward. “There is much that you keep guarded, and for that, you…” _You bring pain and confusion. What makes me or your father less, that you couldn’t simply say what you see and know?_ “You lose more, for you hope for others to follow along, ignorant.” She looked at him, at his cold and emotionless mask glaring at her. “And people do not like that.”

_Tell me, Jon Snow._

He tightened his jaw, words stuck in his throat, ready to spill. She did not let him.

“You _are_ good. You _are_ honourable.” His eyes widened, his jaw slackened, surprise clear on his handsome features. “But you think less of you and less still of others. You want to command, to have others following you, but you don’t listen and you don’t know how to _follow_.” She looked away. “Your father wanted you to listen, and you wanted your father to guess.”

Silence reigned, and he slowly stood up on his fit. His fists were clenched tight.

“And what do you know?” Freezing, her eyes widened and heart hammered in her chest. His voice was cold, detached. _I hurt him._ “How can you know what my father wanted? How can you understand the decisions I had to make? Have you ever done something alone? Have you ever had responsibility, true and heavy weighing your shoulders down?” She clenched her fists, lowering her head as his words struck her like the blows they were. “You say you’ve seen the world, that you have seen everything there is to see, but all you did was tour beside your guardians and walls, secure and guarded against the world. You have _never_ been alone.” _It is true_ , a treacherous voice hissed in her ear. “You may listen as much as you want, what is the use of words when you cannot have your own thoughts? Can’t you think without help?” Anger, deep and self-righteous rose like a beast in her chest. Her eyes narrowed and her shaking fists stilled. “Can’t—”

“And _you,”_ she snapped at him, glaring at his looming figure. “Cannot _listen._ ” Confusion twisted his features for a moment before they were smoothed out. She continued with a vengeance. “I was giving you _counsel._ I was not attacking you like you do to me.” She shook her head. “That is what I meant, what your father wanted. He did want to change you, I do not want to change you.” She got up on her feet, turning and staring him dead in the eye. “I was _honest_ , and I wanted to help you _see._ Your father wanted to give you reason, and his own views, and his own thoughts and all you could get out of it was that he was _wrong._ ” She was heaving with breath, wide eyes begging him to understand. “People see you, Jon, but they cannot guess what you think, or why you do whatever you’ve done. You need to know those things, you need to look beyond your own world.” She gasped, head dizzy with feelings and sensations. The root of the problem was clear in front of her. Ser Davos’ words were brought to the forefront of her mind, and she whispered to him. “Haven’t you heard the rumours?”

The breeze played with their curls. Jon stared at her with dark eyes, moonlight making them silver and his skin shining like his name. He was a beautiful vision in black, standing guard with fury and confusion and hurt. She regretted it, then. She regretted saying it as soon as the question was out. Anguy’s words — _“He’s got his own shit to deal with, and those rumours always paint ‘im like he is a terror. He don’t like it, no, so, I’d tell you that you should get the story from ‘im, milady, instead of trying to pry and listen to rumours.”_ — echoed in her mind, and the way Jon stepped away from her, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what she had just said. It made her heart weep for him and her throat tighten.

“I’ve heard enough,” was all he whispered before he walked away, turning his back to the hand she extended to him.

She remained there, alone, until Doreah called her to sleep.

•••

 

Daenerys chose her [outfit](https://www.deviantart.com/cherrysdesigns/art/closed-Auction-Adopt-Outfit-221-621223519) that morning, a sleek thing that had a golden heart-shaped bodice that laid low and a black blouse peeking out of her cleavage that connected to a full body black piece with tight pants glued to her form. It had short sleeves, red with black lace, ending just after her shoulder with a full white pelt connecting with an asymmetric skirt, red with the same black patterns from the sleeve, just in full view for the piece was long on her right side, leaving her left leg in the open. She wore long black gloves with gold trims. Finally, she had black boots that went to her knees.

Her hair was made into a crown, going over her head with a braid interwoven with black and red threads. She let her face clean of any paints.

Dany hoped she looked like her mother.

Going out of her tent that morning felt magical. People stared at her again, in awe or in jealousy or lust. She ignored them, mounting her Silver and moving to the very front of the party, looking out at the high towers she could barely see. Dusk covered the vision of the previous night, a thick fog curling at her ankles and rising into the forest.

Jon appeared by her side, dressed in black leather and an [open long asymmetric coat](https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/351140102177394058/), lined with thick white fur inside. He did not greet her, looking ahead and ignoring her own prodding stare. He looked unbothered by her gaze and the procession waiting impatiently behind them, but his fists were tightly curled on his reigns, his shoulders tense. _You cannot lie to me, Jon Snow._ How could they ever hope to return to that semblance of privacy when they had shared it so openly? Jon had carved her heart out with nothing but gentle kisses and kind words, patient beyond what she had ever witnessed as he cared for her fragile self. He had seen her innermost self and stained her with the black of his hair and the grey of his eyes, marking her skin with his touch and her mind with his thoughts.

In exchange, she had taken hold of his soul. Jon found in her calm what he had with no other, she knew. It was no love they shared, but it was a camaraderie that tied them to each other as no other they had ever met did. 

She knew he was cross with her for intruding, she knew she had been too forceful. He knew she had reason to distrust him, and still, he hadn't listened. They were at an impasse, and they knew the other well enough by now to realize it with a glance. Knowing someone like that was a curious thing. She had never looked at someone and read their own body like they were part of her thoughts. Under those clothes, there was skin she had touched and kissed. In him, Dany found a map, a book of secrets in a language she still had to fully learn. 

He was no stranger or friend or family that she had tied to her by sentimentality. What connected their paths were much more than duty by now, much more than punishment unwanted or tool to humiliation. They had not parted after their bedding and Jon had not cast her aside as was usual for their culture, and it had shown in their way they had bound themselves together with unrestrained passion and complete transparency.

_Well,_ _at least on my part._ Dany was hurt and she worried for what she had heard from Ser Davos, whose council had never failed her before. But the words of someone who had aided Jon in his misdoings, their servant Anguy, were sincere. She had gone against Anguy’s advice, followed her anger and confronted Jon with the thing he hated — she believed the rumours before his own words — and hurt him deeply when he tried to comfort her, but nothing she said wasn’t something she thought wrong. Divided, hurt and self-righteous, neither would speak or apologize, such was the pride of youth.

Quiet, Dany savoured the calming lull of the forest path. Sunlight barely peeked into the sky, painting it with dark colours that danced and merged into a beautiful natural masterpiece. Birds chirped, the wind blew and the breeze brought with it the strong musk of life mixed with the stench of humans. She wished she was alone to experience it with no outside interference but her own insignificant one in the face of such grandeur.

It didn’t take long for her to see the great wall entering her vision, towers sparked through its length with great fire pits like the ones she read existed in Old Valyria. Their roofs were great black domes, and the structure was made of white stones. The walls to her utmost right were of the same stone, but at a point, it turned into a thick line of wood. At the division point between wood and stone, builders worked even at the lowlight of the rising sun, mallets banging away and an uncountable number of carts filled with giant blocks of stone and many other things occupied the area. The stone walls were almost reaching the great wood gates that led into Queenscrown.

Dany looked with wide violet eyes, breathless and enchanted with the view she had dreamt about her whole life. A rider rode ahead of them, and just as she had to bend her neck back to spy at the curious faces looking down at them from the wooden parapets at least ten feet tall, the gates were opened, revealing her kingdom under the light of the dawn.

Catching her breath, Dany almost toppled over her horse as a dirt road passed through leagues of empty fields, leading to an agglomerate of structures far off in the distance at the base of the mountain. Rising high from it was a beautiful castle with black roofing and walls that shone purple with the first light of the day. It took great strength to look away and inspect her sides, and yet she could see that the walls went far to the sides, so long its furthest point disappeared up into the shadow of the mountain, on both sides!

There were roads along the walls curving softly to follow it, a stream — _the canals! the heated aqueducts!_ — parting it in two, leaving enough space for three carts to pass on each side. Dany snapped her eyes back to the road ahead, with dark metal circles spread along its length, something inside her flying high knowing that those roads were going to be warm and paved for the product she had inspired into fruition. She let her eyes rise up, admiring her castle with its high towers and longing to see it up close. She moved her gaze higher and higher to the mountain-range, barely grasping the idea that it belonged to _her_ as its breathtaking sight was haloed by the rising sun.

They passed green expanses — _the farmlands!_ — separated by two paths before entering a circular plaza with two more roads leading to each side, and this time the district — _“District rings,” Jon whispered into her ear as she caressed two of the purpled rings separating the farmlands from the main city. His hand massaged her back the same way she touched the map, and it made her giggle, making him chuckle. “Those are the manses, the palaces of our benefactors.” She felt his lips twitch against her ear. “I wanted to have them as far from us as propriety allowed.”She gave him a kiss in exchange._ — were no lush greens, but narrower and with less treated grounds with a low barrier and long tubes extending through the earth. In the very centre of the plaza was a lone tower with red roofing and black stone. At its top, she could see movement inside. They passed the watchtower and ignored the four roads leading further into the districts, exiting the plaza by walking forward towards a beautiful green space that was many times wider than the large plaza connected with yet another district ring with sparse few wood and stone buildings.

They moved left, and soon the dirt road changed into dark grey stone pavement.Workers moved away from them, scrambling to move their equipment out of their way. Eyes moved toward Jon, and soon some were nodding respectfully and many gave him warm greetings and grins.

People waved at them, bowed and sent cheerful or tired ‘good mornings’ to Jon and his guards. Then they looked at her — in red and black clothing and silver hair telling of her identity — with solemn curiosity and wariness. She tried to wave at them, but most only stared back at her in judgement. The foreboding eyes that accompanied her in the next plaza were aplenty. The palace district to their left was slowly appearing more filled, great manses in all sorts of different styles — “ _Dornish, Northern, Yi Tish, Myrish, Pentoshi, Qohorsi, Nervosi, the whole world surrounds our castle, Daenerys.”_ — separated by narrower roads and gates appearing more frequently and less sparse. At each path they passed, guards with flags from whoever owned such palaces were waiting, attentive to the party that followed Dany and Jon.

As they moved, the cold lessened largely and the air grew warmer, a low steam rolling lazily around them up into the skies as the sun started to rise. The mountains’ body slowly turned from indistinguishable darkness to a plane full of life, with greens and large and small rocks, its peaks covered in snow. The districts on each side were full of housings and people already mingling about. Chimneys were already spilling smoke into the skies, bakeries in full swing and stalls being assembled when they entered a lively and rustic town — _“There is what we call Queen’s Town,” Jon pointed at the West section that did not follow the organized form of the district rings. “It was the small starting village built by the workers before we started to organize and plan the terrain contract outside the castle, old town.”_ — and turned right.

Queen’s Town was messier, grimier, but no dirty old place. Jon hated when things weren’t as clean as they could possibly be. The way he had silently raged and complained about how he didn’t want their future to be as shit as King’s Landing had been endearing, and it showed in the care of the place. Having not ever seen the Capital city, Jon only knew of it through the terror tales of their architects and builders and sewer specialists, and as such his mind had to stretch the tales to their fullest. Robb had told her that their speech had marked Jon, making it unbearable for him to live in pollution and filth. Queenscrown’s Oldtown was alive with movement, its buildings and streets messier and unorganized but in no ways was it without its beauty. Houses were of a warmer coloured stone, with the narrow and messy paths cut clean into the village. The people were dressed simply, but more heavily than they’d seen previously. No stream passed through its roads, and Dany knew it was a part of the city that had no heating due to its early and messier formation.

They turned right, riding past the town and into a great plaza with the tallest watchtower she’d seen yet and a great warm fountain with many children already running around it as their family put up their stalls and bought whatever they needed for an early feasting. They moved past the warm greetings and paid respects, and Dany couldn’t help but smile in the face of their curiosity despite her owns fears. Two other districts were passed, the roads separating them narrow but with its aqueducts and its detailed metal fence completed with gas lamps. Soon after the great fountain, two other districts surged with colour and brilliance in their lavishing crops. Two great spaces of green with giant glasshouses spread through it between fields of groves with all the likeness of the ones from Dorne. People were at work in the fields, and she could see them mingling amongst the crops. Sunlight streamed through the beautifully coloured glasshouses, their domed roofs rising high, with shadows of moving workers mingling about inside. In the innermost greenbelt, its two endings were empty of plantation or buildings, but well treated.

Finally, they reached the ramp leading up to the great open gates ahead of them. Impatient, Dany ran ahead regardless of Lord Stannis’ callings. She heard no complaints from Jon, who just followed at his own pace. She passed the gates to find a paradise enclosed by high walls, the sun high enough now so she could see the true vibrancy of its white stones. She was close enough to notice the fine work put at in the castle, black detailing that was fine and delicate flowed through the white walls, with great glass windows she had never seen before, open ash ways. A bridge crossed the lake she had heard so much about, connecting it to a gatehouse. 

_This lake is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,_ Dany gasped, galloping until she was halfway through the bridge, scrambling out of her Silver and running to the barricade, slamming on it and looking down at the deep waters and the distant lush land close to the Inner Walls protecting it, and the castle, from outside interference. A small gathering ran across the private lake band, men fighting against each other with swords or doing many other exercises in the early morning.

“The guard!” laughing breathlessly, Dany whispered to herself. She could barely believe that what she had discovered in documents and letters and others’ accounts was there in front of her, real and living in its routine. The sun was higher, illuminating the Gift with golden light, blessing her lands with the Summer’s treasure of warmth and security. She looked down, seeing the lake lapping at the tall pillars supporting the bridge. She could feel her eyes watering as she laughed, shaking her head as she stepped back and looked up and up and up towards the highest point she could see of her castle.

Heart in hand, Dany walked the rest of the way, slow enough that Jon reached her by the time she entered the gatehouse. She stopped inside it, looking up at the curious faces of armoured men looking down from their posts. Jon stopped behind her, getting down from his great black mount and walking till he stood beside Dany. She gulped, taking her eyes away from the curious faces above and staring at what must have been a stable boy passing by them, guiding Jon’s black beast away as huge dark eyes peered at her beneath a simple cap. He scurried away when their eyes met, startled.

Sadness stirred from its hiding corner in her heart again, bringing with it all the worries she had briefly buried beneath childish joy. A gentle hand on her arm made Dany turn back to Jon. Despite his ice-cold features, his hold was gentle as he nudged her forward. He guided her into a beautiful courtyard. The main doors of the castle were huge, right in front of the gatehouse with small stairs connecting it to the courtyard and there were open passageways leading into the four towers surrounding it. The stone under her boot was solid and whiter as the ones that made the walls of her home.

Her eyes were glued onto the closed doors of the castle’s main entrance, hypnotized by its colourful red paint, with its black doorway and the white of the walls, and the two stories of great windows. The sun shone onto the glass, and a distant bell rang as their doors opened. A fat boy surged from the depths of the castle, stopping to stare at her with huge eyes. She ignored him, entering the halls of her new home. She could hear him whispering furiously to Jon, but she did not bother to try and discern his words.

Two staircases lead up to the second floor, curving softly. The ceiling was high, detailed with various patterns and symbols. Was it in gold? Paint? Silver? Her mind was too full to truly know. She looked at the floor. It was marble, shining and polished and warm.

“Go up,” came from behind her, making her snap back to reality. She did not bother to look back, moving her eyes unto one of the staircases and to the balcony above. There were lamps along the walls, turned off for the moment but when she approached she saw the same little switch as in the one Jon had in Winterfell. Breathing out a laugh, she ran upstairs, hand sliding on the handrail as the other held her skirt. 

Up and up and up she went, breathless as she stopped at the top. She took a moment to take a turn, looking from the ceiling to the windows to the walls to the floor and the corridors on both sides. She looked down from the balcony, watching as people filtered in with curious eyes roaming around. Jon was already walking up the stairs. She turned back, eyes falling onto another great door of warm wood with two guards waiting at each side. They were dressed in Targaryen colours.

Her mind spun too fast, her thoughts turbulent and impossible to understand. Everything was a mess, everything was colours and sensations and images, abstract and shattered. Her whole being was being reconstructed again as she stood in front of those doors, Jon at her side nodding to the guards to open them to reveal what must’ve been the Great Hall. In a trance, Dany stepped into the room, light falling over her through the glass roof, laying patterned shadows over her skin and painting the warm hall with gold and silver. She could see the faint dust floating in the air in its rays. The marble floors were patterned, full of white and beige as the walls and windows were white and gold and red. On the other side of it, on a dais, there were two simply carved wooden thrones. [ They](https://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=58895365) were indistinguishable, equal in all ways with black and silver detailing.

Dany went up the few steps slowly, not believing for a moment that she was there. All surrounding was real, not a dream or a reverie brought by longing. Her fantasy lay bare and true before her eyes, and still, she could not believe it. It felt too perfect, too sacred. Finally, she stopped before one of them, desiring to touch it but incapable of doing so.

She feared if her skin laid upon it, everything would dissipate.

Jon took his time in reaching her, and he took hold of her hand again. Behind them, steps could be heard and gasps echoed in the previously empty hall.

“Every castle must have its sovereign’s throne,” he started, quiet just for her to hear it as he laid their hands on the arm of the left one. “From the lowest household to the King himself, a throne is always present in the house of a Lord.” The wood was warm under her fingers, incredibly smooth and too detailed for it to be anything but real. “Your cousin made sure to have two done for us.” Her breath hitched and she turned her eyes to his solemn face.

He turned towards the people entering the Great Hall, and Dany followed him. Jon rose his arm, and she dropped her hand dauntingly over his fist. He turned his hand and took hold of her hand as propriety obliged, turning to the various faces that were looking up at them with various ranges of emotions. She followed his eyes, gazing down at the wary glares of Baratheon loyalists, the hopeful gazes of the Targaryen supporters, fearing the greedy needy eyes that looked at them and, finally, to the warm looks that came from those who loved her, admired her.

It was in their eyes that Dany found security and confidence to raise her chin high and set her posture straight. Sunlight streamed through the great ceiling above her, and she could see the sky, and her castle’s towers, and the great mountains that guarded them. Her heart was beating fast and her blood flowed through her veins, hot and burning with life that threatened to burst out. She drew breath, she brimmed with energy and youth, her mind was clear. Reality sunk its claws into her, painful and magnificent as life was, and Dany _knew_.

She wasn’t alone. _I am not alone._

Jon stood strong beside her, her friends supported her, her allies were ready to follow her. Dany was not alone. Not everything was alright, and maybe it wouldn’t ever be, but she was not alone, and she could move on, she could make things better.

“Welcome!” Jon said, unflinching and not shy at all. She felt as if he had waited a long time for this moment. _So did I._ “I welcome you into our home, the Crown Castle, and our lands. Queenscrown welcomes you, as do I.” He looked at her by the corner of his eyes, face unmoving. “And mine own lady wife.”

Everything grew sharper, the faces in front of her bared names and meaning she could not ignore. She stood before enemies. No longer a child seeking protection behind her guardian. No. Daenerys looked down at Lord Stannis this time, distant and sitting on a chair of power of her own. He wouldn’t protect her forever.

Jon nudged her as Ramsay stepped forward, calling their names to the crowd as if they didn’t know it. He sat on his chair and she did the same, keeping her head high and her face as regal as she’d pictured her lady mother’s. Ramsay called for Lord Stannis as their regent, and Dany met his gaze and held it until he moved to stand beside her, putting one hand on her shoulder, his eyes intent.

She smirked at him as Jon looked at them with a curious expression.

“Shall we begin?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you are high on the feelings right now, probably. Hopefully? But, anyway, hear me out. There's already a post about Queenscrown's looks and map for you in my Tumblr. No, the heating one is not there, maybe I'll make it, maybe not.
> 
> Let's address this chapter per scene, shall we? Dany is not pregnennent, pragnat, or pregnant. People around her ARE aware she is too young, but she isn't. The main characters are not always right, and this is the main theme of the chapter, I'd guess. Dany thinks she is grown and mature enough for life, but she doesn't notice that she still has much to learn, the same as Jon.
> 
> The shadowcat's death was a turning point for her, and it made her realise that yes, she was wrong about Mel, and not everything was as good and fine as she believed. She saw the real word at that moment, she saw reality as clear and cruel and not as black and white as she believed. It hurt her, destroyed her brutally. 
> 
> Jon's harsh actions in his chapter were not without consequences, and his insistence in not listen to those around him and not speaking for them to understand him shows clearly and is the result of their first conflict. And as true teenagers, they did not deal with either of their problems correctly, attacking and butting in in the other's matters because they think they know they are in right.
> 
> About Cat, well, lay your bets and tell me how bad you think that will end. > :) A clue: a lot of fire. And blood. But in all seriousness, that scene is probably my favourite one. It was so much fun writing and re-writing it so it would be just the way I wanted.
> 
> The last scene was very descriptive, but I tried to make it quick and at least pleasant. By now, my post regarding Queenscrown's construction is already out. Here's the link:
> 
> http://kazemari.tumblr.com/post/177838670584/queenscrowns-construction
> 
> Excited to know your thoughts, see ya!
> 
> ~Mari

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this as a scapegoat to a lot of personal problems I'm now fighting against. I'm writing for fun, for this fandom I absolutely adore, and really cannot be giving a lot of updates. But this will be a peaceful place, where I can simply vent.
> 
> I know, Robert would never allow this, and that's a kind of out of the crazy bag idea, but I just wanted to write or read, something that would give both Dany and Jon a relationship since the very beginning. And which way better than an arranged marriage? So, I just had to change the story around it. I have this planned down until Winterfell's destruction. Well, please review and let me know your thoughts!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Her Life and Her Death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12158934) by [magicmoon111](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicmoon111/pseuds/magicmoon111)
  * [Winter Roses: Summer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780513) by [fairytalelovr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytalelovr/pseuds/fairytalelovr)




End file.
